. 


FATHER    RYAN  S 


POEMS. 


"All  Bests  with  those  who  Head.    A  work  or  thought 
Is  what  each  makes  it  to  himself,  and  may 
Be  full  of  great  dark  meanings,  like  the  sea, 
With  shoals  of  life  rushing;  or  like  the  air, 
Benighted  with  the  wing  of  the  wild  dove, 
Sweeping  miles  broad  o'er  the  far  southern  woods, 
With  mighty  glimpses  of  the  central  light,— 

Or  may  he  nothing— bodiless,  spiritless." 

— FESTUS. 


MOBILE: 
JNO.    L.    RAPIER    &    CO.,  PUBLISHERS. 


1879. 


COPYRIGHT 

BY   ABRAM   J.    RYAN 
1879. 


THESE 

SIMPLE  RHYMES 

ARE   LAID   AS   A   GARLAND   OF   LOVE 

AT  THE  FEET  OF  His  MOTHER  BY 

HER  CHILD,  THE 

AUTHOR. 


893558 


THESE  VERSES  (which  some  friends  call  by  the  higher 
title  of  Poems — to  which  appellation  the  Author  objects), — 
were  written  at  random, — off  and  on, — here, — there, — any 
where, — just  when  the  mood  came,  with  little  of  study  and 
less  of  art, — and  always  in  a  hurry. 

Hence  they  are  incomplete  in  finish,  as  the  Author  is ; — 
tho'  he  thinks  they  are  true  in  tone.  His  feet  know  more  of 
the  humble  steps  that  lead  up  to  the  Altar  and  its  Mysteries, 
than  of  the  steeps  that  lead  up  to  Parnassus  and  the  Home 
of  the  Muses.  And  souls  were  always  more  to  him  than 
songs.  But  still  somehow, — and  he  could  not  tell  why, — he 
sometimes  tried  to  sing.  Here  are  his  simple  songs.  He 
never  dreamed  of  taking  even  lowest  place  in  the  rank  of 
authors.  But  friends  persisted  ;  and  finally  a  young  lawyer 
friend,  who  has  entire  charge  of  his  business  in  the  book, 
forced  him  to  front  the  world  and  its  critics.  There  are 

verses  connected  with  the  war  published  in  this  volume  not 

0 
for   harm-sake,  nor  for  hate-sake,  but  simply  because   the 

Author  wrote  them.  He  would  write  again  in  the  same  tone 
and  key  under  the  same  circumstances.  No  more  need  be 
said,  except  that  these  verses  mirror  the  mind  of 

THE  AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS. 


SONG  OF  THE  MVSTIC,        «.._ 9 

LIFE, 11 

MARCH  OF  THE  DEATHLESS  DEAD,    - 13 

LAST  OF  MAY,      -- 15 

THE  SNVORD  OF  ROBERT  LEE,     * 18 

AT  LAST,       ---_... 20 

IN  MEMORY  OF  VERY  REV.  J.  B.  ETIENNE, -22 

A  MEMORY, 23 

THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  SOUTH, 21 

A  MEMORY,          -- 27 

RHYME, -...33 

NOCTURNE,          [ 37 

REVERIE,          .............40 

THE  OLD  YEAR  AND  THE  NEW,      • 43 

A  LAUGH  AND  A  MOAN,        ..........45 

LINES,  .............         47 

MEMORIES, 49 

"OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS,"        .........         50 

FEAST  OF  THE  SACRED  HEART,    .........    52 

A  LAND  WITHOUT  RUINS, 54 

IN  MEMORY  OF  MY  BROTHER,      .......       ..55 

A  THOUGHT, ......56; 

GONE, ...57. 

FEAST  OF  THE  ASSUMPTION,    .........         58 

SUBSUM  CORDA,       ................     61 

PRESENTIMENT,    •       •       •       •       -       •       -       -       -       -       --.63 

A  CHILD'S  WISH, -•  •     64 

I  OFTEN  WONDER  WHY  'TIS  so, -»-         65 


CONTENTS. 

!  WAKE  ME  A  SONG, -       -  66 

IN  MEMOKIAM, - 67 

!  REVERIE,   - 

TEARS, 71 

'LINES, 72 

THE  LAND  WE  LOVE, 73 

!  A  BLESSING, 74 

'ERIN'S  FLAG, 76 

JULY  NINTH,  1872, 79 

A  DEATH, 81 

IN  MEMORI AM— DAVID  J.  RYAN,  0.  S.  A., 83 

'WHAT?  -         •         •         •          •          -          -v  87 

'A  THOUGHT-FLOWER, 89 

THK  MASTER'S  VOICE, 90 

DEATH, 92 

THE  ROSARY  or  MY  TEARS, -  93 

A  REVERIE,  95 

OLD  TREES, 97 

A  THOUGHT,         - .    - 98 

IN  ROME,   -  -  101 

AFTER  SICKNESS,  - 103 

AFTER  SEEING  Pius  IX, 105 

SENTINEL  SONGS, 106 

FRAGMENTS  FROM  AN  Eric  POEM, 115 

LAKE  COMO, 128 

•TEACE  !  BE  STILL," 133 

GOOD  FRIDAY,  134 

SUNLESS  DAYS, 135 

A  REVERIE, -  136 

MY  BEADS,  ,  137 

AT  NIGHT, --  138 

NOCTURNE,        -  -  140 

ST.  MARY'S,  - 143 

DE  PROFUNDIS, 145 

WHEN?  -  ..*....  148 

THE  CONQUERED  BANNER,    -  -  150 

A  CHRISTMAS  CHAUNT,      -  152 

"FAR  A\VAY,"  __----._____    172 


CONTENTS. 

LISTEN,  ---•----_--__  174 
WRECKED,  --.---_-_.._  175 

SORROW  AND  THE  FLOWERS,  ---...-..  17(5 
A  THOUGHT,  ---.-...„..._  i81 
DREAMING,  ----.---.....  182 

"YESTERDAYS,"        •          --------..          .    183 

"TO-DAYS,"  ------------         184 

"TO-MORROWS,"     ------------   185 

INEVITABLE,  -  .--..-.....  187 
HOPE,  -----.---....  189 

FAREWELLS,         --------..._       190 

SONG  OF  THE  RIVER,     -----___.       ._  191 

DREAM  LAND,       ----------_„      193 

LINES,        ------.-._____  191, 

A  SONG,        ------.-.-...       195 

PARTING,    ---•--.-._--..  197. 
ST.  STEPHEN,       -      _      _      _      .       .____.„      193 

A  FLOWER'S  SONG,         -       -       -------_.  201 

THE  STAR'S  SONG,      -      --------.„      202 

DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWER,      --..*.....  203 

Now,  ........       .....       204 

SINGING  BIRD,         ._-_._..       ...       .  206 

GOD  IN  THE  NIGHT,    -.----.-...       207 

M    *    *    *  -        --.._....-...  209 

REUNITED,    -       .._ _       211 

C.  S.  A.,  -       -       -       - -       -  213 

THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEJBN, 215 

PASSING  AWAY, 217 

POETS, 219 

A  LEGEND, 221 

WHAT  AILS  THE  WORLD  ? 223 

THOUGHTS, 225 

LINES, ...       226 

THE  PILGRIM, ._   227 

THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS,  .....---  235 
LINES,  --  ----------  259 

[DEATH  OF  THE  EBINCE  IMPERIAL,  -------         26O 

EPILOGUE,       ---_-----....  263 


SONG  OF  THE  MYSTIC. 

WALK  down  the  Valley  of  Silence,— 
Down  the  dim,  voiceless  valley  alone  I 
And  I  hear  not  the  fall  of  a  footstep 

Around  me  save  God's  and  my  own; 
And  the  hush  of  my  heart  is  as  holy 
As  hovers  where  angels  have  flown  I 

Long  ago — was  I  weary  of  voices 

Whose  music  my  heart  could  not  win; 

Long  ago  I  was  weary  of  noises 
That  fretted  my  soul  with  their  din; 

Long  ago  was  I  weary  of  places 

Where  I  met  but  the  human — and  sin, 

I  walked  in  the  world  with  the  worldly;. 

I  crayed  what  the  world  never  gave;. 
And  I  said:  "In  the  world  each  Ideal, 

That  shines  like  a  star  on  life's  wave; 
Is  wrecked  on  the  shores  of  the  Real, 

And  sleeps  like  a  dream  in  a  grave." 

And  still  did  I  pine  for  the  Perfect, 

And  still  found  the  False  with  the  True; 

I  sought  'mid  the  Human  for  Heaven, 
But  caught  a  mere  glimpse  of  its  Blue: 

And  I  wept  when  the  clouds  of  the  mortal 
Veiled  even  that  glimpse  from  my  view* 


to  SONG  OF  THE  MYSTIC. 

And  I  toiled  on  heart-tired  of  the  Human; 

And  I  moaned  'mid  the  mazes  of  men; 
Till  I  knelt  long  ago  at  an  altar 

And  heard  a  voice  call  me: — since  then 
I  walk  down  the  Valley  of  Silence 

That  lies  far  beyond  mortal  ken. 

Do  you  ask  what  I  found  in  the  Valley? 

'Tis  my  Trysting  Place  with  the  Divine. 
And  I  fell  at  the  feet  of  the  Holy, 

And  above  me  a  voice  said:  "Be  mine." 
And  there  arose  from  the  depths  of  my  spirit 

An  echo — "My  heart  shall  be  thine." 

Do  you  ask  how  I  live  in  the  Valley? 

I  weep — and  I  dream — and  I  pray. 
But  my  tears  are  as  sweet  as  the  dewdrops 

That  fall  on  the  roses  in  May; 
ind  my  prayer,  like  a  perfume  from  Censers, 

Ascendeth  to  God  night  and  day. 

In  the  hush  of  the  Valley  of  Silence 
I  dream  all  the  songs  that  I  sing; 

And  the  music  floats  down  the  dim  Valley, 
Till  each  finds  a  word  for  a  wing, 

That  to  hearts,  like  the  Dove  of  the  Deluge, 
A  message  of  Peace  they  may  bring. 

But  far  on  the  deep  there  are  billows 
That  never  shall  break  on  the  beach;   ' 

And  I  have  heard  songs  in  the  Silence 
That  never  shall  float  into  speech; 

And  I  have  had  dreams  in  the  Valley 
Too  lofty  for  language  to  reach. 


LIFE.  ii 

And  I  have  seen  Thoughts  in  the  Valley, — 

Ah  me!   how  my  spirit  was  stirred! 
And  they  wear  holy  veils  on  their  faces, — 

Their  footsteps  can  scarcely  be  heard: 
They  pass  through  the  Valley,  like  Virgins 

Too  pure  for  the  touch  of  a  word! 

Do  you  ask  me  the  place  of  the  Valley? 

Ye  hearts  that  are  harrowed  by  Care! 
It  lieth  afar  between  mountains 

And  God  and  his  angels  are  there: 
And  one  is  the  dark  mount  of  Sorrow, 

And  one,— the  bright  mountain  of  Prayer! 


LIFE. 

BABY  played  with  the  surplice  sleeve 

Of  a  gentle  priest;  while  in  accents  low 
The  sponsors  murmured  the  grand  "I  believe." 

And  the  priest  bade  the  mystic  waters  flow, 
In  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  the  Son, 
And  Holy  Spirit — Three  in  One. 

Spotless  as  a  lily's  leaf, 

Whiter  than  the  Christmas  snow; 
Not  a  sign  of  sin  or  grief, 

And  the  babe  laughed  sweet  and  low. 


x»  LIFE. 

A  smile  flitted  over  the  baby's  face: 
Or  was  it  the  gleam  of  its  angel's  wing 

Just  passing  then,  and  leaving  a  trace 
Of  its  presence,  as  it  soared  to  sing? 

A  hymn  when  words  and  waters  win 

To  Grace  and  life  —  a  child  of  sin. 

Not  an  outward  sign  or  token, 
That  a  child  was  saved  from  woe, 

But  the  bonds  of  sin  were  broken; 
And  the  babe  laughed  sweet  and 


A  cloud  rose  up  to  the  mother's  eyes,  — 
And  out  of  the  cloud  grief's  rain  fell  fast, 

Came  the  baby's  smiles,  and  the  mother's  sighs, 
Out  of  the  future,  or  the  past?  — 

Ah!  gleam  and  gloom  must  ever  meet, 
And  gall  must  mingle  with  the  sweet. 

Yea,  upon  the  baby's  laughter 

Trickled  tears:  'tis  ever  so— 
Mothers  dread  the  dark  hereafter; 

But  the  babe  laughed  sweet  and  low. 

And  the  years  like  waves  broke  on  the  shore 
Of  the  mother's  heart,  and  her  baby's  life; 

53ut  her  lone  heart  drifted  away  before 
Her  little  boy  knew  an  hour  of  strife;  — 

Drifted  away  on  a  Summer's  eve, 

Ere  the  orphaned  child  knew  how  to  grieve. 

Her  humble  grave  was  gently  made, 
Where  roses  bloomed  in  Summer's  glow; 

The  wild  birds  sang  where  her  heart  was  laid; 
And  her  boy  laughed  sweet  and  low, 


LIFE.  13 

He  drifted  away  from  his  mother's  grave 
Like  a  fragile  flower  on  a  great  stream's  tide. 

'Till  he  heard  the  moan  of  the  mighty  wave, 
That  welcomed  the  stream  to  the  ocean  wide. 

Out  from  the  shore  and  over  the  deep,— 
He  sailed  away  and  learned  to  weep. 

Furrowed  grew  the  face  once  fair, 
Under  storms  of  human  woe; — 

Silvered  grew  the  dark  brown  hair, 
And  he  wailed  so  sad  and  low. 

The  years  swept  on  as  erst  they  swept, 

Bright  wavelets  once — dark  billows  now. 
Wherever  he  sailed — he  ever  wept, 

A  cloud  hung  over  the  darkened  brow— 
Over  the  deep  and  into  the  dark, 

But  no  one  knew  where  sank  his  bark. 

Wild  roses  watched  his  mother's  tomb, 
The  world  still  laughed,  'tis  ever  so,— 

God  only  knows  the  baby's  doom, 
That  laughed  so  sweet  and  low. 


MARCH  OF  THE  DEATHLESS  DEAD. 

ATHER  the  sacred  dust 

Of  the  warriors  tried  and  true, 
Who  bore  the  flag  of  our  People's  trust 
And  fell  in  a  cause,  though  lost  still  just 
And  died  for  me  and  you. 


14       MARCH  OF  THE  DEATHLESS 

Gather  them  one  and  all! 

From  the  Private  to  the  Chief, 
Come  they  from  hovel  or  princely  hall, 
They  fell  for  us,  and  for  them  should  fall 

The  tears  of  a  Nation's  grief. 

Gather  the  corpses  strewn 

O'er  many  a  battle  plain; 
From  many  a  grave  that  lies  so  lone, 
Without  a  name  and  without  a  stone, 

Gather  the  Southern  slain. 

We  care  not  whence  they  came, 

Dear  in  their  lifeless  clay! 
Whether  unknown,  or  known  to  fame, 
Their  cause  and  country  still  the  same— 

They  died — and  wore  the  Gray. 

Wherever  the  brave  have  died, 

They  should  not  rest  apart; 
Living  they  struggled  side  by  side- 
Why  should  the  hand  of  Death  divide 

A  single  heart  from  heart. 

Gather  their  scattered  clay, 

Wherever  it  may  rest; 
Just  as  they  marched  to  the  bloody  fray; 
Just  as  they  fell  on  the  battle  day; 

Bury  them  breast  to  breast. 

The  foeman  need  not  dread 

This  gathering  of  the  brave; 
Without  sword  or  flag,  and  with  soundless  tread, 
We  muster  once  more  our  deathless  dead; 

Out  of  each  lonely  grave. 


LAST  OF  MAY.  '«v 

The  foeman  need  not  frown, 

They  all  are  powerless  now — 
We  gather  them  here  and  we  lay  them  down, 
And  tears  and  prayers  are  the  only  crown 

We  bring  to  wreathe  each  brow. 

And  the  dead  thus  meet  the  dead, 

While  the  living  o'er  them  weep; 
And  the  men  by  Lee  and  Stonewall  led, 
And  the  hearts  that  once  together  bled, 

Together  still  shall  sleep. 


LAST  OF  MAY, 

TO  THE   CHILDREN  OF  MARY  OF  THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  MOBILE. 

N  the  mystical  Dim  of  the  Temple, — 

In  the  dream-haunted  Dim  of  the  Day, — 
&  The  Sunlight  spoke  soft  to  the  Shadows, 

And  said:  "With  my  gold  and  your  gray, 
Let  us  meet  at  the  shrine  of  the  Virgin,-* 

And  ere  her  fair  Feast  pass  away 
Let  us  weave  there  a  mantle  of  glory 
To  deck  the  Last  Evening  of  May. 

The  tapers  were  lit  on  the  altar 

With  garlands  of  lilies  between; 
And  the  steps  leading  up  to  the  statue 

Flashed  bright  with  the  roses'  red  sheen; 
The  sungleams  came  down  from  the  Heavens 

Like  angels,  to  hallow  the  scene, 
And  they  seemed  to  kneel  down  with  the  shadows 

That  crept  to  the  shrine  of  the  Queen. 


LAST  OF  MA  Y. 

The  singers, — their  hearts  in  their  voices, 

Had  chanted  the  anthems  of  old; 
And  the  last  trembling  wave  of  the  Vespers 

On  the  far-shores  of  silence  had  rolled. 
And  there, — at  the  Queen-Virgin's  altar 

The  Sun  wove  the  mantle  of  gold 
While  the  hands  of  the  Twilight  were  weaving 

A  fringe  for  the  flash  of  each  fold. 

And  wavelessly-,  in  the  deep  silence, 

Three  banners  hung  peaceful  and  low, — 
They  bore  the  bright  Blue  of  the  Heavens 

They  wore  the  pure  White  of  the  snow, — 
And  beneath  them  fair  children  were  kneeling, 

Whose  faces,  with  graces  aglow, 
Seemed  sinless, — in  land  that  is  sinful 

And  woeless, — in  life  full  of  woe. 

Their  heads  wore  the  veil  of  the  lily, — 

Their  brows  wore  the  wreath  of  the  rose, 
And  their  hearts,  like  their  flutterless  banners, 

Were  stilled  in  a  holy  repose. 
Their  shadowless  eyes  were  uplifted, 

Whose'glad  gaze  would  never  disclose 
That  from  eyes  that  are  most  like  the  Heavens 

The  dark  rain  of  tears  soonest  flows. 

The  Banners  were  borne  to  the  railing 

Beneath  them — a  group  from  each  band>— • 
And  they  bent  their  bright  folds  for  the  Blessing 

That  fell  from  the  Priest's  lifted  hand. 
And  he  signed  the  three,  fair,  silken  standards, 

With  a  Sign  never  foe  could  withstand, — 
What  stirred  them?     The  breeze  of  the  Evening? 

Or  a  breath  from  the  far- Angel-land? 


LAST  OF  MA  Y.  17 

Then  came,  two  by  two,  to  the  altar, 

The  young  and  the  pure  and  the  fair,-— 
Their  faces  the  mirror  of  Heaven, — 

Their  hands  folded  meekly  in  prayer, 
They  came  for  a  simple  blue  ribbon 

For  love  of  Christ's  mother  to  wear, — 
And  I  believe,  with  the  children  of  Mary 

The  Angels  of  Mary  were  there. 

Ah  !  Faith  !  simple  Faith  of  the  children ! 

You  still  shame  the  Faith  of  the  old ! 
Ah  !  love  !  simple  love  of  the  Little  ! 

You  still  warm  the  love  of  the  cold  ! 
And  the  Beautiful  God  who  is  wandering 

Far  out  in  the  world's  dreary  wold, 
Finds  a  Home  in  the  Hearts  of  the  children 

And  a  Rest  with  the  Lambs  of  the  Fold. 

Swept  a  voice  ; — was  it  wafted  from  Heaven  ? 

Heard  you  ever  the  Sea  when  its  sings, 
Where  it  sleeps  on  the  shore  in  the  Night-time  ? 

Heard  you  ever  the  hymns  the  breeze  brings, 
From  the  hearts  of  a  thousand  bright  summers  ? 

Heard  you  ever  the  bird,  when  she  springs 
To  the  clouds,  till  she  seems  to  be  only 

A  song  of  a  shadow  on  wings  ? 

Came  a  voice, — and  an  "Ave  Maria" 

Rose  out  of  a  heart  rapture-thrilled 
And  -in  the  embrace  of  its  music 

The  souls  of  a  thousand  lay  stilled. 
A  voice  with  the  tones  of  an  angel, 

Never  flower  such  a  sweetness  distilled ; 
It  faded  away, — but  the  temple 

With  its  perfume  of  worship  was  rilled. 


THE  SWORD  OF  ROBERT  LEE. 

Then  back  to  the  Queen- Virgin's  altar 

The  white  veils  swept  on  two  by  two; — 
And  the  holiest  halo  of  heaven 

Flashed  out  from  the  ribbons  of  Blue; — 
And  they  laid  down  the  wreaths  of  the  roses 

Whose  hearts  were  as  pure  as  their  hue, — 
Ah!  they  to  the  Christ  are  the  truest, 

Whose  loves  to  the  Mother  are  true! 

And  thus  in  the  Dim  of  the  Temple 

In  the  dream-haunted  Dim  of  the  Day,— 
The  Angels  and  Children  of  Mary 

Met  ere  their  Queen's  Feast  passed  away, 
Where  the  Sungleams  knelt  down  with  the  Shadows 

And  wove  with  their  gold  and  their  gray 
A  mantle  of  grace  and  of  glory 

For  the  Last,  lovely  Evening  of  May. 


THE  SWORD  OF  ROBERT  LEE. 

ORTH  from  its  scabbard  pure  and  bright, 

Flashed  the  sword  of  Lee! 
Far  in  the  front  of  the  deadly  fight 
High  o'er  the  brave  in  the  cause  of  Right 
Its  stainless  sheen  like  a  beacon  light 
,  Led  us  to  Victory. 


THE  SWORD  OF  ROBERT  LEE.  19 

Out  of  its  scabbard  where  full  long 

It  slumbered  peacefully, — 
Roused  from  its  rest  by  the  battle's  song 
Shielding  the  feeble,  smiting  the  strong 
Guarding  the  right,  avenging  the  wrong 

Gleamed  the  sword  of  Lee. 

Forth  from  its  scabbard  high  in  air 

Beneath  Virginia's  sky — 
And  they  who  saw  it  gleaming  there 
And  knew  who  bore  it  knelt  to  swear, 
That  where  that  sword  led,  they  would  dare 

To  follow  and  to  die. 

Out  of  its  scabbard! — never  hand 
Waved  sword  from  stain  as  free, 
Nor  purer  sword  led  braver  band, 
Nor  braver  bled  for  a  brighter  land, 
Nor  brighter  land  had  a  Cause  so  grand, 
Nor  cause  a  chief  like  Lee. 

Forth  from  its  scabbard!  how  we  prayed, 

That  sword  might  victor  be; — 
And  when  our  triumph  was  delayed, 
And  many  a  heart  grew  sore  afraid, 
We  still  hoped  on  while  gleamed  the  blade 

Of  noble  Robert  Lee. 

Forth  from  its  scabbard!  all  in  vaifi 
Bright  flashed  the  sword  of  Lee;-** 

'Tis  shrouded  now  in  its  sheath  agair% 

It  sleeps  the  sleep  of  our  noble  slajn; 

Defeated  yet  without  a  stain, 
Proudly  and  peacefully. 


AT  LAST. 

NTO  a  temple  vast  and  dim, 
Solemn  and  vast  and  dim, 
Just  when  the  last  sweet  Vesper  Hymn 

'Was  floating  far  away — 
With  eyes  that  tabernacled  tears — • 

Her  heart  the  home  of  tears — 
And  cheeks  wan  with  the  woes  of  years, 
A  woman  went  one  day. 

And,  one  by  one,  adown  the  aisles— 

Adown  the  long,  lone  aisles — 
Their  faces  bright  with  holy  smiles 

That  follow  after  Prayer — 
The  worshipers  in  silence  passed— 

In  silence  slowly  passed  away; 
The  woman  knelt  until  the  last 
Had  left  her  lonely  there. 

A  holy  hush  came  o'er  the  place — 

O'er  the  holy  place — 
The  shadows  kissed  her  woe-worn  face, 

Her  forehead  touched  the  floor; 
The  wreck  that  drifted  thro'  the  years — 

Sin-driven  thro'  the  years — 
Was  floating  o'er  the  tide  of  tears, 
To  mercy's  golden  shore. 


AT  LAST.  21 

Her  lips  were  sealed,  they  could  not  pray — 

They  sighed,  but  could  not  pray — 
All  words  of  Prayer  had  died  away 

From  them  long  years  ago; 
But  ah!  from  out  her  eyes  there  rose — 

Sad  from  her  eyes  there  rose — 
The  prayer  of  tears,  which  swiftest  goes 
To  Heaven — winged  with  woe. 

With  weary  tears,  her  weary  eyes — 

Her  joyless,  weary  eyes — 
Wailed  forth  a  Rosary — and  her  sighs 

And  sobs  strung  all  the  Beads; 
The  while  before  her  spirit's  gaze — • 

Her  contrite  spirit's  gaze — 
Mov/sd  all  the  mysteries  of  her  days 
And  histories  of  her  deeds. 

Still  as  a  shadow,  while  she  wept — 

So  desolately  wept — 
Up  thro'  the  long,  lone  aisle  she  crept 

Unto  an  altar  fair; 

Mother!" — her  pale  lips  said  no  more— 
Could  say  no  more — 

The  wreck,  at  last,  reached  Mercy's  shoro— 
For  Mary's  shrine  was  there. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  VERY  REV.  J.  B.  ETIENNE, 

SUPERIOR  GENERAL  OF  THE    CONGREGATION  OF  THE  MISSIO] 
AND  OF  THE  SISTERS  OF  CHARITY. 

SHADOW  slept  folded  in  vestments 

The  dream  of  a  smile  on  its  face, 
Dim — soft  as  the  gleam  after  sunset, 

That  hangs  like  a  halo  of  grace, 
Where  the  daylight  hath  died  in  the  valley, 

And  the  twilight  hath  taken  its  place, 
A  Shadow!  but  still  on  the  mortal, 

There  rested  the  tremulous  trace 
Of  the  joy  of  a  spirit  immortal, 

Passed  up  to  its  God  in  His  grace.     . 

A  Shadow!  hast  seen  in  the  summer 

A  cloud  wear  the  smile  of  the  sun? 
On  the  shadow  of  death  there  is  flashing 

The  glory  of  noble  deeds  done; 
On  the  face  of  the  dead  there  is  glowing 

The  light  of  a  holy  race  run; 
And  the  smile  of  the  face  is  reflecting 

The  gleam  of  the  crown  he  has  won. 
Still,  Shadow!  sleep  on  in  the  vestments 

Unstained  by  the  Priest  who  has  gone. 

And  thro'  all  the  nations,  the  children 
Of  Vincent  de  Paul  wail  his  loss; 

But  the  glory  that  crowns  him  in  heaven 
Illumines  the  gloom  of  their  cross. 


A  MEMORY.  23 

They  send  to  the  Shadow  the  tribute 
Of  tears,  from  the  fountains  of  love, 

And  they  send  from  their  altars  sweet  prayers 
To  the  throne  of  their  Father  above. 

Yea!  sorrow  weeps  over  the  Shadow, 

But  Faith  looks  aloft  to  the  skies; 
And  Hope,  like  a  rainbow,  is  flashing 

O'er  the  tears  that  rain  down  from  their  eyes. 
They  murmur  on  earth  "  De  profundis," 

The  low  chant  is  mingled  with  sighs; 
Laudate"  rings  out  through  the  heavens, 

The  dead  Priest  hath  won  his  faith's  prize. 

His  children  in  sorrow  will  honor 

His  grave; — every  tear  is  a  gem, 
And  their  prayers  'round  his  brow  in  the  heavens 

Will  brighten  his  fair  diadem, — 
I  kneel  at  his  grave  and  remember 

In  love,  I  am  still  one  of  them. 


A  MEMORY. 

NE  bright  memory  shines  like  a  star 

In  the  sky  of  my  spirit  forever; 
And  over  my  pathway  it  flashes  afar 
A  radiance  that  perishes  never,. 

One  bright  memory — only  one; 

And  I  walk  by  the  light  of  its  gleaming; 
It  brightens  my  days — and  when  days  are  done 

It  shines  in  the  night  o'er  my  dreaming. 


14  THE  PRA  YER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

One  bright  memory — whose  golden  rays 

Illumine  the  gloom  of  my  sorrows, 
And  I  know  that  its  lustre  will  gladden  my  gaze 

In  the  shadows  of  all  my  to-morrows. 

i 
One  bright  memory — whe  \  i  am  sad 

I  lift  up  my  eyes  to  its  shining, 

And  the  clouds  pass  away;  and  my  spirit  grows  glad 
And  my  heart  hushes  all  its  repining. 

One  bright  memory — others  have  passed 

Back  into  the  shadows  forever; 
"But  it,  far  and  fair,  bright  and  true  to  the  last, 

Sheds  a  light  that  will  pass  away  never. 

Shine  on,  shine  always,  Thou  star  of  my  days  ! 

And  when  Death's  starless  Night  gathers  o'er  me, 
Beam  brighter  than  ever  adown  on  my  gaze, 
And  light  the  dark  valley  before  me. 


THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  S'Gtff  H. 

Y  BROW  is  bent  beneath  a  heavy  rod! 

My  face  is  wan  and  white  with  many  wdeS, 
But  I  will  lift  my  poor  chained  hands  to  God, 
And  for  my  children  pray,  and  for  my  foes. 
Beside  the  graves  where  thousands  lowly  lie 

I  kneel,  and  weeping  for  each  slaughtered  son, 
I  turn  my  gaze  to  my  own  sunny  sky, 

And  pray,  oh!  Father,  Let  Thy  will  be  done! 


THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  25 

My  heart  is  filled  with  anguish,  deep  and  vast; 

My  hopes  are  buried  with  my  children's  dust; 
My  joys  have  fled,  my  tears  are  flowing  fast — 

In  whom,  save  Thee,  our  Father,  shall  I  trust? 
Ah!  I  forgot  The.,  her,  long  and  oft, 

When  I  was  happy,  rich,  and  proud,  and  free; 
But  conquered  now,  and  crushed,  I  look  aloft, 

And  sorrow  leads  me,  Father,  back  to  thee. 

Amid  the  wrecks  that  mark  the  foeman's  path 

I  kneel,  and  wailing  o'er  my  glories  gone, 
I  still  each  thought  of  hate,  each  throb  of  wrath, 

And  whisper,  Father,  let  thy  will  be  done! 
Pity  me,  Father  of  the  Desolate! 

Alas!  my  burdens  are  so  hard  to  bear; 
Look  down  in  mercy  on  my  wretched  fate, 

And  keep  me,  guard  me,  with  thy  loving  care. 

Pity  me,  Father,  for  His  holy  sake, 

Whose  broken  heart  bled  at  the  feet  of  grief, 
That  hearts  of  earth,  wherever  they  shall  break, 

Might  go  to  His  and  find  a  sure  relief. 
Ah,  me,  how  dark!     Is  this  a  brief  eclipse? 

Or  is  it  night  with  no  morrow's  sun? 
Oh!  Father!  Father!  with  my  pale,  sad  lips, 

And  sadder  heart,  I  pray,  Thy  will  be  done. 

My  homes  are  joyless,  and  a  million  mourn 

Where  many  met  in  joys  forever  flown; 
Whose  hearts  were  light,  are  burdened  now  and  torn; 

Where  many  smiled,  but  one  is  left  to  moan. 
And,  ah!  the  widow's  Avails,  the  orphan's  cries, 

Are  morning  hymn  and  vesper  chant  to  me; 
And  groans  of  men  and  sounds  of  women's  sighs 

Commingle,  Father,  with  my  prayer  to  Thee. 


26        .      THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Beneath  my  feet  ten  thousand  children  dead — 

Oh!  how  I  loved  each  known  and  nameless  one  I 
Above  their  dust  I  bow  my  crownless  head, 

And  murmur — Father,  still  Thy  will  be  done. 
Ah!  Father,  Thou  didst  deck  my  own  loved  land 

With  all  bright  charms,  and  beautiful  and  fair; 
But  foemen  came,  and,  with  a  ruthless  hand, 

Spread  ruin,  wreck  and  desolation  there. 

Girdled  with  gloom,  of  all  my  brightness  shorn, 

And  garmented  with  grief,  I  kiss  Thy  rod, 
And  turn  my  face,  with  tears  all  wet  and  worn, 

To  catch  one  smile  of  pity  from  my  God. 
Around  me  blight,  where  all  before  was  bloom, 

And  so  much  lost,  alas!  and  nothing  won! 
Save  this — that  I  can  lean  on  wreck  and  tomb, 

And  weep,  and  weeping,  pray,  Thy  will  be  done. 

And  oh!  'tis  hard  to  say,  but  said,  'tis  sweet; 

The  words  are  bitter,  but  they  hold  a  balm-^ 
A  balm  that  heals  the  wounds  of  my  defeat, 

And  lulls  my  sorrows  into  holy  calm. 
It  is  the  prayer  of  prayers,  and  how  it  brings, 

When  heard  in  Heaven,  peace  and  hope  to  rne! 
When  Jesus  prayed  it,  did  not  angels'  wings 

Gleam  'mid  the  darkness  of  Gethsemane? 

My  children,  Father,  Thy  forgiveness  need; 

Alas!  their  hearts  have  only  place  for  tears! 
Forgive  them,  Father,  ev'ry  wrongful  deed 

And  ev'ry  sin  of  those  four  bloody  years, 
And  give  them  strength  to  bear  their  boundless  loss, 

And  from  their  hearts  take  every  thought  of  hate; 
And  while  they  climb  their  Calvary  with  their  Cross, 

Oh!  help  them,  Father,  to  endure  its  weight 


A  MEMORY.  27 

And  for  my  dead,  my  Father,  may  I  pray? 

Ah!  sighs  may  soothe,  but  prayer  shall  soothe  me  morel 
I  keep  eternal  watch  above  their  clay; 

Oh!  rest  their  souls,  my  Father,  I  implore! 
Forgive  my  foes — they  know  not  what  they  do — 

Forgive  them  all  the  tears  they  made  me  shed; 
Forgive  them,  though  my  noblest  sons  they  slew, 

And  bless  them,  though  they  curse  my  poor,  dear  dead, 

Oh!  may  my  woes  be  each  a  carrier-dove, 

With  swift,  white  wings,  that,  bathing  in  my  tears, 
Will  bear  Thee,  Father,  all  my  prayers  of  love, 

And  bring  me  peace  in  all  my  doubts  and  fears. 
Father,  I  kneel,  'mid  ruin,  wreck  and  grave — 

A  desert  waste,  where  all  was  erst  so  fair — - 
And  for  my  children  and  my  foes  I  crave 

Pity  and  Pardon — Father,  hear  my  prayer! 


A  MEMORY. 

DOWN   the  valley  dripped  a  stream, 
White  lilies  drooped  on  either  side; 
Our  hearts,  in  spite  of  us,  will  dream 
In  such  a  place,  at  Eventide. 

Bright  wavelets  wove  the  scarf  of  Blue 
That  well  became  the  valley  fair, — 

And  grassy  fringe  of  greenest  hue 
Hung  round  its  borders  everywhere. 


28  A  MEMORY. 

And  where  the  stream,  in  wayward  whirls 
Went  winding  in  and  winding  out, 

Lay  shells  that  wore  the  look  of  pearls 
Without  their  pride,  all  strewn  about 

And  here  and  there  along  the  strand, 

Where  some  ambitious  wave  had  strayed, 

Rose  little  monuments  of  sand 
As  frail  as  those  by  mortals  made. 

And  many  a  flower  was  blooming  there 

In  beauty,  yet  without  a  name, 
Like  humble  hearts  that  often  bear 

The  gifts, — but  not  the  palm  of  fame. 

The  rainbow's  tints  could  never  vie 
With  all  the  colors  that  they  wore ; 

While  bluer  than  the  bluest  sky, 

The  stream  flowed  on  'tween  shore  and  shore. 

And  on  the  height,  and  down  the  side, 
Of  either  hill  that  hid  the  place, 

Rose  elms  in  all  the  stately  pride 

Of  youthful  strength  and  ancient  race. 

While  here  and  there  the  trees  between,— 
Bearing  the  scars  of  battle-shocks, 

And  frowning  wrathful,  might  be  seen 
The  moss-veiled  faces  of  the  rocks. 

And  round  the  rocks  crept  flowered  vines 
And  clomb  the  trees  that  towered  high,—- 

The  type  of  a  lofty  thought  that  twines 
Around  a  Truth,  to  touch  the  sky. 


A  MEMORY.  29 

And  to  that  vale  from  first  of  May 

Until  the  last  of  August  went  ;— 
Beauty,  the  exile,  came  each  day 

In  all  her  charms,  to  cast  her  tent. 

'Twas  there,  one  long-gone  August  day 

I  wandered  down  the  valley  fair, — • 
The  spell  has  never  passed  away 

That  fell  upon  my  spirit  there. 

The  summer  sunset  glorified 

The  clouded  face  of  dying  day 
Which  flung  a  smile  upon  the  tide 

And  lilies,  ere  he  passed  away. 

And  o'er  the  valley's  grassy  slopes 

There  fell  an  evanescent  sheen, 
That  flashed  and  faded  like  the  hopes 

That  haunt  us,  of  what  might  have  been. 

And  rock  and  tree  flung  back  the  light 

Of  all  the  sunset's  golden  gems, 
As  if  it  were  beneath  their  right 

To  wear  such  borrowed  diadems. 

Low  in  the  west  gleam  after  gleam, 
Glowed  faint  and  fainter, — till  the  last 

Made  the  dying  Day  a  living  Dream 
To  last  as  long  as  life  shall  last. 

And  in  the  arches  of  the  trees     . 

The  wild  birds  slept  with  folded  wing, 
And  e'en  the  lips  of  the  summer-breeze, 

That  sang  all  day,  had  ceased  to  sing, 


30  A  MEMORY. 

And  all  was  silent, — save  the  rill 

That  rippled  round  the  lilies'  feet, — 

And  sang, — while  stillness  grew  more  still 
To  listen  to  the  murmur  sweet. 

And  now  and  then  it  surely  seemed 
The  little  stream  was  laughing  low,—- 

As  if  its  sleepy  wavelets  dreamed 
Such  dreams  as  only  children  know. 

So  still, — that  not  the  faintest  breath 
Did  stir  the  shadows  in  the  air ; — 

It  would  have  seemed  the  home  of  Death 
Had  I  not  felt  Life  sleeping  there. 

And  slow  and  soft, — and  soft  and  slow 
From  darkling  earth  and  darkened  sky, 

Wide  wings  of  Gloom  waved  to  and  fro 
And  spectral  shadows  flitted  by. 

And  then  methought  upon  the  sward 
I  saw, — or  was  it  starlight's  ray  ? 

Or  Angels  come  to  watch  and  guard 
The  valley, — till  the  dawn  of  day  ? 

Is  every  lower  life  the  ward 

Of  spirits  more  divinely  wrought? 

'Tis  sweet  to  believe  'tis  God's, — and  hare1 
To  think  'tis  but  a  Poet's  thought. 

But  God's  or  Poet's  thought, — I  ween 
My  senses  did  not  fail  me  when 

I  saw  veiled  angels  watch  that  scene 

And  guard  its  sleep, — as  they  guard  men. 


A  MEMORY. 

Sweet  sang  the  stream  as  on  it  pressed 
As  sorrow  sings  a  heart  to  sleep, — 

As  a  Mother  sings  one  child  to  rest 
And  for  the  dead  one  still  will  weep^ 

I  walked  adown,  the  singing  stream, 
The  lilies  slept  on  either  side  ; — 

My  heart, — it  could  not  help  but  dream 
At  Eve,  and  after  Eventide, 

Ah  !  dreams  of  such  a  lofty  reach 

With  more  than  earthly  fancies  fraught,— 

That  not  the  strongest  wings  of  speech 
Could  ever  touch  their  lowest  thought. 

Dreams  of  the  Bright— the  Fair,— the  Far, 

Heart-fancies  flashing  Heaven's  hue,— 
That  swept  around, — as  sweeps  a  star 
t  The  boundless  orbit  of  the  True. 

Yea !  dreams  all  free  from  earthly  taint — 
Where  human  Passion  played  no  part, — 

As  pure  as  thoughts  that  thrill  a  Saint 
Or  haunt  an  Archangelic  heart. 

Ah !  dreams  that  did  not  rise  from  Sense 
And  rose  too  high  to  stoop  to  it, — 

And  flamed  aloft  like  frankincense 
In  censers  round  the  Infinite. 

Yea  !  dreams  that  vied  with  Angel's  flight 
And  soaring, — bore  my  heart  away, — 

Beyond  the  far  Star-bounds  of  Night 
Unto  the  Everlasting  Day. 


A  MEMORY. 

How  long  I  strolled  beside  the  stream 

I  do  not  know,  nor  may  I  say  ; 
But  when  the  Poet  ceased  to  dream 

The  Priest  went  on  his  knees  to  pray. 

I  felt,  —  as  sure  a  seraph  feels, 

When  in  some  golden  hour  of  grace 

God  smiles,  —  and  suddenly  reveals 
A  new,  strange  Glory  in  His  Face. 

Ah  !  star-lit  valley  !     Lilies  white  ! 

The  Poet  dreamed,  —  ye  slumbered  deep! 
But  when  the  Priest  knelt  down  that  Night 

And  prayed,—  why  woke  ye  from  your  sleep? 


The  stream  sang  down  the  valley  fair— 
I  saw  the  wakened  lilies  nod,  — 

I  knew  they  heard  me  whisper  there 
"  How  beautiful  !  art  thou,  my  God  !  " 


RHYME. 

NE  idle  day 

A  mile  or  so  of  sunlit  waves  off  shore, 
In  a  breezeless  bay, — 
We  listless  lay 
J  Our  boat  a  "  dream  of  rest "  on  the  still  sea— 
And — we  were  four. 

The  wind  had  died 
That  all  day  long  sang  songs  unto  the  deep ; 

It  was  eventide — 

And  far  and  wide 
Sweet  silence  crept  thro'  the  rifts  of  sound 

With  spells  of  sleep. 

Our  gray  sail  cast 
The  only  cloud  that  flecked  the  foamless  sea, 

And  weary  at  last 

Beside  the  mast 
One  fell  to  slumber,  with  a  dreamy  face 

And — we  were  three. 

No  ebb  !  no  flow! 
No  sound  !  no  stir, — in  the  wide-wondrous  calm 

In  the  sunset's  glow 

The  shore  shelved  low 
And  sno  v-white, — from  far  ridges  screened  with  shade; 

Of  drooping  palm. 


34  RHYME. 

Our  hearts  were  hushed  ; — 
All  light  seemed  melting  into  boundless  blue  ; 

But  the  west  was  flushed 

Where  sunset  blushed, 
Thro'  clouds  of  roses,  when  another  slept 

And, — we  were  two. 

How  still  the  air ! 
Not  e'en  a  sea-bird  o'er  us  waveward  flew 

Peace  rested  there ! 

Light !  everywhere ! 
Nay!  Light !  some  shadows  fell  on  that  fair  scene,. 

And, — we  are  two ; 

Some  shadows  !     Where  ! 
No  matter  where  !  all  shadows  are  not  seen 

For  clouds  of  care, 

To  skies  all  fair 
Will  sudden  rise  as  tears  to  shining  eyes 

And  dim  their  sheen. 

We  spake  no  word 
Tho'  each  I  ween  did  hear  the  other's  soul. 

Mot  a  wavelet  stirred 

And  yet  we  heard, 
The  loneliest  music  of  the  weariest  waves 

That  ever  roll. 

Yea !  Peace !  you  swayed 
Your  sceptre  jeweled  with  the  evening  light, 

And  then  you  said 
"Here  falls  no  shade, — 
Here  floats  no  sound,  and  all  the  seas  and  skies 

Sleep  calm  and  bright" 


RHYME.  35 

..  Nay,  Peace  !     Not  so  ! 
The  wildest  waves  may  feel  thy  sceptre's  spell, 

And  fear  to  flow, 

But  to  and  fro, — 
Beyond  their  reach  lone  waves  on  troubled  seas 

Will  sink  and  swell. 

No  word  e'en  yet 
Were  our  eyes  speaking  while  they  watched  the  sky 

And  in  the  sunset, 

Infinite  regret, 
Swept  sighing  from  the  skies  into  our  souls 

I  wonder  why! 

A  half  hour  passed — 
'Twas  more  than  half  an  age ;  'tis  ever  thus, 

Words  came  at  last, 

Fluttering  and  fast 
As  shadows  veiling  sunsets  in  the  souls 

Of  each  of  us. 

The  noiseless  night 
Sped  flitting  like  a  ghost  where  waves  of  blue 

Lost  all  their  light 

As  lips  once  bright 
Whence  smiles  have  fled ;  we  or  the  wavelets  sighed 

And  we  were  two. 

The  day  had  gone — 
And  on  the  dim  high  altar  of  the  Dark 

Stars  one  by  one 

Far,  faintly  shone  ; 
The  moonlight  trembled  like  a  mother's  smile 

Upon  our  bark. 


36  RHYME. 

We  softly  spoke, 
The  waves  seemed  listening  on  the  lonely  sea 

The  winds  awoke 

Our  whispers  broke 
The  spell  of  silence ;  and  two  eyes  unclosed 

And  we  were  three. 

"The  breeze  blows  fair," 
He  said ; — "  the  waking  waves  set  towards  the  shore ;  '* 

The  long  brown  hair 

Of  the  other  there 
Who  slumbered  near  the  mast  with  dreamy  face 

Stirred  : — we  were  four. 

.That  starry  night — • 
,A  mile  or  so  of  shadows  from  the  shore 

Two  faces  bright 

With  laughter  light 
Shone  on  two  souls  like  stars  that  shine  on  shrines 

And  we  were  four. 

Over  the  reach 
Of  dazzling  waves  our  boat  like  wild  bird  flew 

We  reached  the  beach 

Nor  song — nor  speech 
Shall  ever  tell  our  Sacramental  thought, 

When, — we  were  two. 


NOCTURNE. 

SIT,  to-night,  by  the  firelight, 
And  I  look  at  the  glowing  flame, 
And  I  see  in  the  bright  red  flashes 
,*        A  Heart, — a  Face  and  a  Name. 

How  often  have  I  seen  pictures 
Framed  in  the  firelight's  blaze,— 

Of  hearts,  of  names  and  of  faces, 
And  scenes  of  remembered  days  ! 

How  often  have  I  found  poems, 

In  the  crimson  of  the  coals, 
And  the  swaying  flames  of  the  firelight 

Unrolled  such  golden  scrolls. 

And  my  eyes,  they  were  proud  to  read  them. 

In  letters  of  living  flame, — 
But  to-night,  in  the  fire,  I  see  only 

One  Heart, — one  Face  and  one  Name. 

But  where  are  the  olden  pictures? 

And  where  are  the  olden  dreams? 
Has  a  change  come  over  my  vision  ? 

Or  over  the  fire's  bright  gleams  ? 

Not  over  my  vision,  surely — 

My  eyes, — they  are  still  the  same, 

That  used  to  find  in  the  firelight 
So  many  a  face  and  name. 

Not  over  the  firelight  either, 
No  change  in  the  coals  or  blaze 

That  flicker  and  flash  as  ruddy 
To-night,  as  in  other  days. 


3S  NOCTURNE. 

But  there  must  be  a  change  —  I  feel  it,  — 
To-night  ;  not  an  old  picture  came  ; 

The  fire's  bright  flames  only  painted 
One  heart,  —  one  face  and  one  name. 

Three  pictures  ?     No  !  only  one  picture  ;— 
The  Face  belongs  to  the  Name,  — 

And  the  Name  names  the  Heart,  that  is  throbbing 
Just  back  of  the  beautiful  flame. 

Who  said  it?  I  wonder,  —  "all  faces 
Must  fade  in  the  light  of  but  one,  —  • 

The  soul  like  the  earth,  may  have  many 
Horizons,  —  but  only  one  sun.'* 

Who  dreamt  it  ?     Did  I  ?     If  I  dreamt  it, 

'Tis  true,  —  every  name  passes  by 
Save  one  ;  —  the  sun  wears  many  cloudlets 

Of  gold,  —  but  has  only  one  sky. 

And  out  of  the  flames  have  they  faded 
The  hearts  and  the  faces  of  yore  ? 

Have  they  sunk  'neath  the  gray  of  the  ashes 
To  rise  to  my  vision  no  more  ? 

Yes,  surely,  or  else  I  would  see  them 
To-night,  just  as  bright  as  of  old,^— 

In  the  white  of  the  coals'  silver  flashes, 
In  the  red  of  the  restless  flames' 


Do  you  say  I  am  fickle  and  faithless  ? 

Else  why  are  the  old  pictures  gone  ? 
And  why  should  the  visions  of  many 

Melt  into  the  vision  of  one  ? 


NOCTURNE.  39 

Nay!  list  to  the  voice  of  the  Heavens, 

"One  Eternal  alone  reigns  above." 
Is  it  true  ? — and  all  else  are  but  idols  ? 

So  the  heart  can  have  only  one  Love. 

Only  one, — all  the  rest  are  but  idols,-  - 
That  fall  from  their  shrines  soon  or  late, 

When  the  Love  that  is  Lord  of  the  temple., 
Comes  with  sceptre  and  crown  to  the  gate. 

To  be  faithless  oft  means  to  be  faithful, 
To  be  false  often  means  to  be  true,— 

The  vale  that  loves  clouds  that  are  golden, 
Forgets  them  for  skies  that  are  blue. 

To  forget  often  means  to  remember 

What  we  had  forgotton  too  long, — • 
The  fragrance  is  not  the  bright  flower, 

The  echo  is  not  the  sweet  song. 

Am  I  dreaming?     No,  there  is  the  firelight 

Gaze — I  ever  so  long — all  the  same 
I  only  can  see  in  its  glowing 

A  Heart,  a  Face  and  a  Name. 

Farewell !  all  ye  hearts,  names  and  faces  ! 

Only  ashes  now  under  the  blaze, — 
Ye  never  again  will  smile  on  me, — 

For  I'm  touching  the  end  of  my  days. 

And  the  beautiful  fading  firelight 

Paints,  now,  with  a  pencil  of  flame, 
Three  pictures, — yet  only  one  picture 

A  Heart,  a  Face  and  a  Name. 


REVERIE. 

•:  NLY  a  few  more  years  ! 
Weary  years ! 

Only  a  few  more  tears  ! 
Bitter  tears  ! 

And  then — and  then — like  other  men, — 
I  cease  to  wander, — cease  to  weep, — 
Dim  shadows  o'er  my  way  shall  creep, — 

And  out  of  the  Day, — and  into  the  Night, — 

Into  the  Dark,  and  out  of  the  Bright, — 
I  go, — and  Death  shall  veil  my  face, — 
The  feet  of  the  years  shall  fast  efface 
My  very  name,  and  every  trace 

I  leave  on  Earth  ; — for  the  stern  years  tread, — 

Tread  out  the  names  of  the  Gone  and  Dead ! 

And  then, — ah  !  then ;  like  other  men,— 
I  close  my  eyes, — and  go  to  sleep, — 
Only  a  few,  one  hour,  shall  weep, 
Ah !  me  ! — the  Grave  is  dark  and  deep. 

Alas  !     Alas  !— 

How  soon  we  pass ! 
And  ah  !  we  go — 

So  far  away  ? — 
When  go  we  must, — 

From  the  Light  of  Life,  and  the  heat  of  strife, — 
To  the  Peace  of  Death,  and  the  cold,  still  Dust,- 

We  go — we  go — we  may  not  stay, 

We  travel  the  lone,  dark,  dreary  way;—: 
Out  of  the  Day  and  into  the  Night, — 
Into  the  Darkness, — out  of  the  Bright,— 


REVERIE.  41 

And  then  !  ah,  then  !  like  other  men, 
We  close  our  eyes — and  go  to  sleep — 
We  hush  our  hearts — and  go  to  sleep, — 
Only  a  few,  one  hour,  shall  weep, 
Ah,  me  !  the  Grave  is  lone  and  deep ! 

I  saw  a  flower,  at  morn,  so  fair, — 
I  passed  at  Eve, — it  was  not  there, — 

I  saw  a  sunbeam,  golden,  bright, 

I  saw  a  cloud  the  sunbeam's  shroud, — 
And  I  saw  Night 

Digging  the  Grave  of  Day,— 
And  Day  took  off  her  golden  crown, 
And  flung  it  sorrowfully  down, — 

Ah  !  Day  !  the  Sun's  fair  Bride  ! 
^At  twilight  moaned  and  died. — 
And  so,  alas  ! — like  Day  we  pass, — 

At  Morn  we  smile  ! 
At  Eve  we  weep — 

At  Morn  we  wake — 
In  Night  we  sleep, 

We  close  our  eyes  and  go  to  sleep — - 

Ah  me  !  the  Grave  is  still  and  deep  1 

But  God  is  sweet, 

My  Mother  told  me  so  ; — > 
When  I  knelt  at  her  feet, — 
"  Long — so  long  ago  ; — 
She  clasped  my  hands  in  hers,— 
Ah  me  !  that  memory  stirs 

My  soul's  profoundest  Deep — 

No  wonder  that  I  weep, — 
She  clasped  my  hands, — and  smiled, 
Ah  !  then  I  was  a  child,—. 


REVERIE. 

I  knew  not  harm, 

My  Mother's  arm 

Was  flung  around  me  ; — and  I  felt — 
That  when  I  knelt 

To  listen  to  my  Mother's  prayer, — 

God  was  with  mother  there. 
Yea !  "  God  is  sweet,'1 

She  told  me  so  ; — 

She  never  told  me  wrong, 
And  through  my  years  of  woe 
Her  whispers  soft,  and  sad,  and  low, 

And  sweet  as  Angel's  song, — 
Have  floated — like  a  dream. 

And,  ah  !  to-night  I  seem 

A  very  child  in  my  old,  old  place, 
Beneath  my  Mother's  blessed  face  ; 

And  through  each  sweet  remembered  word, 

This  sweetest  undertone  is  heard  : — 

My  child  ! — my  child  ! — our  God  is  sweet, 
In  Life — in  Death — kneel  at  his  feet, — 

Sweet  in  gladness — sweet  in  gloom, . 

Sweeter  still  beside  the  Tomb. — 

Why  should  I  wail  ? — Why  ought  I  weep? 
The  Grave, — it  is  not  dark  and  deep  ; — 
Why  should  I  sigh? — Why  ought  I  moan? 
The  Grave, — it  is  not  still  and  lone  ; 

•Our  God  is  sweet, — our  Grave  is  sweet, 

We  lie  there  sleeping  at  his  feet, 

Where  the  wicked  shall  from  troubling  cease, 
And  weary  hearts  shall  rest  in  peace  1 


THE   OLD  YEAR  AND  THE  NEW. 

swift  they  go  ! 
Life's  many  years, 
With  their  winds  of  woe 

And  their  storms  of  tears, 

And  their  darkest  of  Nights  whose  shadowy  slopes 
Are  lit  with  the  flashes  of  starriest  hopes, 
jAnd  their  sunshiny  days  in  whose  calm  heavens  loom 
•The  clouds  of  the  tempest— the  shadows  of  the  gloom. 

And  ah  !  we  pray 
With  a  grief  so  drear, 

That  the  years  may  stay 

,    When  their  graves  are  near ; 

Tho'  the  brows  of  To-morrows  be  radiant  and  bright 
.With  love  and  with  beauty,  with  life  and  with  light, 
The  dead  hearts  of  Yesterdays,  cold  on  the  bier, 
To  the  hearts  that  survive  them,  are  evermore  deat 

For  the  heart  so  true, 

To  each  Old  Year  cleaves ; 
Tho'  the  hand  of  the  New 
Flowery  garlands  weave. 

;But  the  flowers  of  the  future  tho'  fragrant  and  fair 
jWith  the  Past's  withered  leaflets  may  never  compare, 
iFor  dear  is  each  dead  leaf — and  dearer  each  thorn— 
Hn  the  wreaths  which  the  brows  of  our  Past  years  have 


44  THE  OLD   YEAR  AND  THE  NEW. 

Yea  !  men  will  cling 

With  a  love  to  the  last ; 
;And  wildly  fling 

Their  arms  round  their  Past  ! 
As  the  vine  that  clings  to  the  oak  that  falls, 
As  the  ivy  twines  round  the  crumbled  walls  ; 
jFor  the  dust  of  the  Past  some  hearts  higher  prize, 
Than  the  stars  that  flash  out  from  the  Future's  bright  skies< 

And  why  not  so  ! 

The  old,  old  Years, 
They  knew  and  they  know 
All  our  hopes  and  fears  ; 

We  walked  by  their  side,  and  we  told  them  each  grief, 
iAnd  they  kissed  off  our  tears  while  they  whispered  relief 
And  the  stories  of  hearts  that  may  not  be  revealed 
In  the  hearts  of  the  dead  years  are  Buried  and  sealed. 

Let  the  New  Year  sing 

At  the  Old  Year's  grave, 
Will  the  New  Year  bring 

What  the  Old  Year  gave  ? 
Ah  !  the  Stranger- Year  trips  over  the  snows, 
And  his  brow  is  wreathed  with  many  a  rose  ; — 
But  how  many  thorns  do  the  roses  conceal 
Which  the  roses,  when  withered,  shall  so  soon  reveal  ! 

Let  the  New  Year  smile 

When  the  Old  Year  dies, 
In  how  short  a  while 

Shall  the  smiles  be  sighs  ? 
Yea  !  Stranger- Year  thou  hast  many  a  charm, 
And  thy  face  is  fair  and  thy  greeting  warm, 
But,  dearer  than  thou — in  his  shroud  of  snows — 
Is  the  furrowed  face  of  the  Year  that  goes. 


A  LAUGH— AND  A  MOAN. 

Yea,  bright  New  Year  ! 

O'er  all  the  earth 
With  song  and  cheer 

They  will  hail  thy  birth  ; 
They  will  trust  thy  words  in  a  single  hour, 
They  will  love  thy  face,  they  will  laud  thy  power, 
For  the  New  has  charms  which  the  Old  has  not, 
And  the  Stranger's  face  makes  the  Friend's  forgot. 


45 


A  LAUGH— AND  A  MOAN. 

HE  brook,  that  down  the  Valley 

So  musically  drips, 
Flowed  never  half  so  brightly 

As  the  light  laugh  from  her  lips. 

Her  face  was  like  the  Lily, 
Her  heart  was  like  the  Rose, 

Her  eyes  were  like  a  Heaven, 
Where  the  sunlight  always  glows. 

She  trod  the  earth  so  lightly 
Her  feet  touched  not  a  thorn ; 

Her  words  wore  all  the  brightness 
Of  a  young  life's  happy  Morn. 


A  LA  UGH— AND  A 

Along  her  laughter  rippled 

The  melody  of  Joy, — 
She  drank  from  every  chalice 

And  tasted  no  alloy." 

Her  life  was  all  a  Laughter 
Her  days  were  all  a  smile, 

Her  heart  was  pure  and  happy 
She  knew  nor  gloom  nor  guile. 

She  rested  on  the  bosom 

Of  her  mother,  like  a  flower 
That  blooms  far  in  a  Valley 

Where  no  storm-clouds  ever  lower. 
,,  f 

And — "  Merry  !  merry  !  merry ! " 
Rang  the  bells  of  every  hour, 

And—"  Happy  !  happy  !  happy  ! " 
In  her  valley  laughed  the  Flower.  ^ 

There  was  not  a  sign  of  shadow, 
There  was  not  a  tear  nor  thorn,— 

And  the  sweet  voice  of  her  laughter 
Filled  with  melody  the  Morn. 


Years  passed — 't  was  long — long  after 
And  I  saw  a  Face  at  Prayer  ; 

.There  was  not  a  sign  of  laughter, 
There  was  every  sign  of  care. 

For  the  Sunshine  all  had  faded 
From  the  Valley  and  the  Flower,, 

And  the  once  fair  face  was  shaded 
In  life's  lonely  Evening  hour. 


LINES— 1875.  4Z 

And  the  lips  that  smiled  with  laughter 

In  the  Valley  of  the  Morn, — 
In  the  Valley  of  the  Evening 

They  were  pale  and  sorrow-worn^ 

And  I  read  the  old— old  lesson* 

In  her  face  and  in  her  tears 
While  she  sighed  amid  the  shadows 

Of  the  Sunset  of  her  years, — 

All  the  rippling  streams  of  laughter 
From  our  hearts  and  lips  that  flow 

Shall  be  frozen,  cold  years  after, 
Into  icicles  of  woe. 


LINES-  1875. 

O  down  where  the  wavelets  are  kissing  the  shore 
And  ask  of  them  why  do  they  sigh  ? 
The  poets  have  asked  them  a  thousand  times  o'er 
But  they're  kissing  the  shore  as  they  kissed  it  before, 
And  they're  sighing  to-day  and  they'll  sigh  evermore, 
Ask  them  what  ails  them  ?  they  will  not  reply, 
But  they'll  sigh  on  forever  and  never  tell  why  ! 
Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a  sigh  ? 
|The  waves  will  not  answer  you  ;  neither  shall  I. 


4$  LINES— 1875. 

'Go!  stand  on  the  beach  of  the  blue  boundless  deep; 
When  the  night  stars  are  gleaming  on  high, 
And  hear  how  the  billows  are  moaning  in  sleep, 
On  the  low  lying  strand  by  the  surge-beaten  steep* 
They're  moaning  forever  wherever  they  sweep  ; 
Ask  them  what,  ails  them  ?  they  never  reply  ; 
They  moan  and  so  sadly,  but  will  not  tell  why  ! 
Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a  sigh  ? 
The  waves  will  not  answer  you — neither  shall  I  ? 

Go  list  to  the  breeze  at  the  waning  of  day 

When  it  passes  and  murmurs  "  Good-bye." 

The  dear  little  breeze — how  it  wishes  to  stay 

Where  the  flowers  are  in  bloom,  where  the  singing  birds  play, 

How  it  sighs  when  it  flies  on  its  wearisome  way. 

Ask  it  what  ails  it  ?  it  will  not  reply, 

Its  voice  is  a  sad  one — it  never  told  why. 

Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a  sigh  ? 

The  breeze  will  not  answer  you,  neither  shall  I. 

Go  watch  the  wild  blasts  as  they  spring  from  their  lair, 
When  the  shout  of  the  storm  rends  the  sky, 
They  rush  o'er  the  earth  and  they  ride  thro'  the  air, 
And  they  blight  with  their  breath  all  the  lovely  and  fair, 
And  they  groan  like  the  ghosts  in  the  "  land  of  despair." 
,Ask  them  what  ails  them  ?  they  never  reply, 
iTheir  voices  are  mournful,  they  will  not  tell  why. 
Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a  sigh  ? 
iThe  blasts  will  not  answer  you,  neither  shall  I. 

Go,  stand  on  the  rivulet's  lily-fringed  side, 

Or  list  where  the  rivers  rush  by  ; 

iThe  streamlets  which  forest  trees  shadow  and  hide, 

And  the  rivers  that  roll  in  their  oceanward  tide, 

Are  moaning  forever  wherever  they  glide  ; 


MEMORIES.  49 

them  what  ails  them  ?  they  will  not  reply. 
;On — sad  voiced,  they  flow,  but  they  never  tell  why. 
tWhy  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a  sigh  ? 
JEarth's  streams  will  not  answer  you — neither  shall  I. 

jCo  list  to  the  voices  of  air,  earth  and  sea, 
jAnd  the  voices  that  sound  in  the  sky, 
fTheir  songs  may  be  joyful  to  some,  but  to  me 
[There's  a  sigh  in  each  chord  and  a  sigh  in  each  key 
|And  thousands  of  sighs  swell  their  grand  melody. 
jAsk  them  what  ails  them  ?  they  will  not  reply. 
They  sigh — sigh  forever,  but  never  tell  why. 
'Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a  sigh  ? 
ir  lips  will  not  answer  you— neither  will  I. 


MEMORIES. 

HEY  come,  as  the  Breeze  comes  over  the  Foam 
Waking  the  waves  that  are  sinking  to  sleep,  — 

The  fairest  of  Memories  from  far-away  Home 
The  dim  dreams  of  faces  beyond  the  dark 


tThey  come  as  the  stars  come  out  in  the  sky 

That  shimmer  wherever  the  shadows  may  sweep,— 

And  their  steps  are  as  soft  as  the  sound  of  a  sigh 
And  I  welcome  them  all  while  I  wearily  weep. 


50  OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS, 

They  come  as  a  song  comes  out  of  the  Past 

A  loved  mother  murmured  in  days  that  are  dead— • 

IWhose  tones  spirit-thrilling  live  on  to  the  last 

When  the  Gloom  of  the  heart  wraps  its  Gray  o'er  the  head, 

ffliey  come  like  the  Ghosts  from  the  grass  shrouded  graves 
And  they  follow  our  footsteps  on  life's  winding  way  ; — 

And  they  murmur  around  us  as  murmur  the  waves 
That  sigh  on  the  shore  at  the  dying  of  day. — 

They  come, — sad  as  tears  to  the  eyes  that  are  bright, — 
They  come, — sweet  as  smiles  to  the  lips  that  are  pale, — 

They  come, — dim  as  dreams  in  the  depths  of  the  night, — 
They  come, — fair  as  flowers  to  the  Summerless  vale, — 

*There  is  not  a  heart  that  is  not  haunted  so, — 

Though  far  we  may  stray  from  the  scenes  of  the  Past, — 

Its  memories  will  follow  wherever  we  go — 

And  the  days  that  were  first  sway  the  days  that  are  Last. 


"OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS." 


OST  !  Lost  I  Lost ! 
The  cry  went  up  from  a  Sea, — 
f   The  waves  were  wild  with  an  awful  wrath 
Not  a  light  shone  down  on  the  lone  ship's  path  ; 
The  clouds  hung  low 
Lost !  Lost !  Lost ! 
Rose  wild  from  the  hearts  of  the  tempest-tossed. 


OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS.  51 

Lost !  Lost !  Lost ! 
The  cry  floated  over  the  waves — 
Far  over  the  pitiless  waves  ; 
It  smote  on  the  Dark  and  it  rended  the  clouds, 
The  billows  below  them  were  weaving  white  shrouds 
Out  of  the  foam  of  the  surge 
And  the  wind-voices  chanted  a  dirge^ 

Lost !  Lost  !  Lost ! 
Wailed  wilder  the  lips  of  the  tempest-tossed. 

Lost !  Lost !  Lost ! 
Not  the  sign  of  a  hope  was  nigh — 
In  the  sea,  in  the  air  or  the  sky  ; 
And  the  lifted  faces  were  wan  and  white, 
There  was  nothing  without  them  but  Storm  and  Night, 
And  nothing  within  but  fear  ; 
But  far  to  a  FATHER'S  EAR 

Lost  !  Lost !  Lost ! 
Floated  the  wail  of  the  tempest-tossed. 

Lost !  Lost !  Lost  I 
Out  of  the  depths  of  the  sea — 
Out  of  the  Night  and  the  Sea  ! 

And  the  waves  and  the  winds  of  the  storm  were  hushed—* 
And  the  sky  with  the  gleams  of  the  stars  was  flushed,—* 

Saved!  Saved!  Saved!  ' 
And  a  calm  and  a  joyous  cry 
Floated  up  through  the  starry  sky 
In  the  dark— in  the  storm  "  Our  Father  "  is  nigh. 


FEAST  OF  THE  SACRED  HEART. 

WO  lights  on  a  lowly  Altar  ; 

Two  snowy  cloths  for  a  Feast ; — 
Two  vases  of  dying  roses, — 

The  Morning  conies  from  the  East, — 
With  a  gleam  for  the  folds  of  the  Vestments 

And  a  grace  for  the  face  of  the  Priest. 

The  sound  of  a  low,  sweet  whisper 

Floats  over  a  little  Bread, — 
And  trembles  around  a  chalice, — 

And  the  Priest  bows  down  his  head  ! 
O'er  a  Sign  of  White  on  the  Altar, — 

In  the  cup — o'er  a  sign  of  Red. 

As  red  as  the  Red  of  roses 

'  As  white  as  the  White  of  snows  ! — 
But  the  red  is  the  red  of  a  surface  - 

Beneath  which  a  God's  blood  flows ; 
And  the  white  is  the  white  of  a  sunlight 
Within  which  a  God's  Flesh  glows. 

Ah  !  Words  of  the  olden  Thursday ! 

Ye  come  from  the  Far-away ! — 
Ye  bring  us  the  Friday's  victim 

In  his  own  love's  olden  way  ?— 
In  the  hand  of  the  Priest  at  the  altar 

His  Heart  finds  a  Home  each  day. 


FEAST  OF  THE  SACRED  HEART.          53 

The  sight  of  a  Host  uplifted  I 

The  silver-sound  of  a  bell  I— 
The  gleam  of  a  golden  chalice- 
Be  glad. — sad  heart !  't  is  well ; 
He  made, — and  he  keeps  love's  promise 
With  thee,  all  days  to  dwell. 

From  his  hand  to  his  lips  that  tremble, — 
From  his  lips  to  his  heart  a-thrill,— 

Goes  the  little  Host  on  its  love-path 
Still  doing  the  Father's  Will  ;— 

And  over  the  rim  of  the  chalice 
The  Blood  flows  forth,— to  fill,— 

The  heart  of  the  man  annointed, 

With  the  waves  of  a  wondrous  grace  j 

A  silence  falls  on  the  Altar — 
An  awe,  on  each  bended  face — 

For  the  Heart  that  bled  on  Calvary 
Still  beats  in  the  Holy-Place. 

The  priest  comes  down  to  the  railing 
Where  brows  are  bowed  in  prayer, — » 

In  the  tender  clasp  of  his  flngers 
A  Host  lies  pure  and  fair, — 

A.nd  the  hearts  of  Christ  and  the  Christian 
Meet  there, — and  only  there  ! 

Oh  !  Love  !  that  is  deep  and  deathless  ! 

Oh  !  Faith  that  is  strong  and  grand  ! 
Oh  !  Hope  that  will  shine  forever, 

O'er  the  wastes  of  a  weary  land  ! — 
Christ's  Heart  finds  an  earthly  Heaven 

In  the  palm  of  the  Priest's  pure  hand. 


A  LAND  WITHOUT  RUINS. 

"A  land  without  ruins  is  a  land  without  memories— a  land  without 
jinemories  Is  a  land  without  history.  A  land  that  wears  a  laurel  crown 
may  be  fair  to  see  ;  but  twine  a  few  sad  cypress  leaves  around  the  brow 
of  any  land,  and  be  that  land  barren,  beautiless  and  bleak,  it  becomes 
lovely  in  its  consecrated  coronet  of  sorrow,  and  it  wins  the  sympathy  of, 
the  heart  and  of  history.  Crowns  of  roses  fade— crowns  of  thorns  en- 
|dure.  Calvaries  and  crucifixions  take  deepest  hold  of  humanity— the 
triumphs  of  might  are  transient— they  pass  and  are  forgotten— the  suffer 
ings  of  right  are  graven  deepest  on  the  chronicle  of  nations.'* 


ES,  give  me  the  land  where  the  ruins  are  spread, 
And  the  living  tread  light  on  the  hearts  of  the  dead  ; 
Yes,  give  me  a  land  that  is  blest  by  the  dust 
And  bright  with  the  deeds  of  the  down-trodden  just. 
Yes,  give  me  the  land  where  the  battle's  red  blast 
Has  flashed  to  the  future  the  fame  of  the  past ; 
Yes,  give  me  the  land  that  hath  legends  and  lays 
That  tell  of  the  memories  of  long  vanished  days  ; 
Yes,  give  me  a  land  that  hath  story  and  song, 
Enshrine  the  strife  of  the  right  with  the  wrong ; 
Yes,  give  me  a  land  with  a  grave  in  each  spot 
And  names  in  the  graves  that  shall  not  be  forgot ; 
Yes,  give  me  the  land  of  the  wreck  and  the  tomb — 
There  is  grandeur  in  graves — there  is  glory  in  gloom ; 
For  out  of  the  gloom  future  brightness  is  born 
As  after  the  night  comes  the  sunrise  of  morn  ; 
And  the  graves  of  the  dead  with  the  grass  overgrown 
May  yet  form  the  footstool  of  liberty's  throne, 
And  each  single  wreck  in  the  war-path  of  might, 
Shall  yet  be  a  rock  in  the  temple  of  right. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  MY  BROTHER. 

OUNG  as  the  youngest  who  donned  the  Gray, 

True  as  the  truest  that  wore  it — 
Brave  as  the  bravest  he  marched  away, 
(Hot  tears  on  the  cheeks  of  his  mother  lay), 
Triumphant  waved  our  flag  one  day," 
He  fell  in  the  front  before  it. 

Firm  as  the  firmest  where  duty  led, 

He  hurried  without  a  falter  ; 

Bold  as  the  boldest  he  fought  and  bled, 

And  the  day  was  won — but  the  field  was  red, 

And  the  blood  of  his  fresh  young  heart  was  shed 

On  his  country's  hallowed  altar. 

On  the  trampled  breast  of  the  battle  plain 
Where  the  foremost  ranks  had  wrestled, 
On  his  pale  pure  face  not  a  mark  of  pain, 
(His  mother  dreams  they  will  meet  again), 
The  fairest  form  amid  all  the  slain, 
Like  a  child  asleep — he  nestled. 

In  the  solemn  shades  of  the  wood  that  swept 
The  field  where  his  comrades  found  him, 
They  buried  him  there — and  the  big  tears  crept 
Into  strong  men's  eyes  that  had  seldom  wept 
(His  mother — God  pity  her — smiled  and  slept, 
Dreaming  her  arms  were  around  him). 


56  A   THOUGHT. 

A  grave  in  the  woods  with  the  grass  o'ergrown, 
A  grave  in  the  heart  of  his  mother — 
His  clay  in  the  one  lies  lifeless  and  lone ; 
There  is  not  a  name,  there  is  not  a  stone — 
And  only  the  voice  of  the  winds  maketh  moan 
O'er  the  grave  where  never  a  flower  is  strewn, 
But,  his  memory  lives  in  the  other. 


A  THOUGHT. 

HE  Summer-Rose  the  sun  has  flushed 
With  crimson  glory,  may  be  sweet, — 

'T  is  sweeter  when  its  leaves  are  crushed 
Beneath  the  winds'  and  tempests'  feet. 

The  Rose,  that  waves  upon  its  tree, — • 
In  life,  sheds  perfume  all  around  ; 

More  sweet  the  perfume  floats  to  me 
Of  roses  trampled  on  the  ground. 

The  waving  Rose,  with  every  breath 
Scents,  carelessly  the  summer  air, — 

The  wounded  Rose  bleeds  forth  in  death 
A  sweetness  far  more  rich  and  rare. 


GONE.  57 

It  is  a  truth  beyond  our  ken 

And  yet  a  truth  that  all  may  read, — 

It  is  with  roses  as  with  men 

The  sweetest  hearts  are  those  that  bleed. 

The  Flower  which  Bethlehem  saw  bloom 

Out  of  a  Heart  all  full  of  grace 
Gave  never  forth  its  full  perfume 

Until  the  Cross  became  its  Vase. 


"GONE." 

S.    M.    A. 

;-*ONE  !  and  there 's  not  a  gleam  of  you, 

Faces  that  float  into  far  away, 

Gone !  and  we  can  only  dream  of  you 

Each  as  you  fade  like  a  star  away, 
Fade  as  a  star  in  the  sky  from  us, 
Vainly  we  look  for  your  light  again ; 
Hear  ye  the  sound  of  a  sigh  from  us  ? 

"  Come  "  and  our  hearts  will  be  bright  agairU 

Come  !  and  gaze  on  our  face  once  more, 
Bring  us  the  smiles  of  the  olden  days  ;— • 
Come  !  and  shine  in  your  place  once  more, 
And,  change  the  dark  into  golden  days- 
Gone  !  Gone  !  Gone  !  Joy  is  fled  for  us, 
Gone  into  the  night  of  the  nevermore, 
And  darkness  rests  where  you  shed  for  us 
A  light  we  will  miss  for  ever  more. 


58  FEAST  OF  THE  ASSUMPTION. 

Faces  !  ye  come  in  the  night  to  us, 
Shadows  !  ye  float  in  the  sky  of  sleep, 
"Shadows  !  ye  bring  nothing  bright  to  us, 
[Faces  !  ye  are  but  the  sigh  of  sleep. 

Gone  !  and  there  's  not  a  gleam  of  you, 
Faces  that  float  into  the  far  away ; 
Gone  !  and  we  only  can  dream  of  you 
Till  we  sink  like  you  and  the  stars  away. 


FEAST  OF  THE  ASSUMPTION. 

"A    NIGHT-PRAYER." 

ARK!  Dark!  Dark! 

The  sun  is  set  ;  the  Day  is  dead, 

Thy  Feast  has  fled  ; 
My  eyes  are  wet,  with  tears  unshed 

I  bow  my  head  ; 
Where  the  star-fringed  shadows  softly  sway, 

I  bend  my  knee, 
And,  like  a  homesick  child,  I  pray, 

Mary !  to  Thee. 

Dark!  Dark!  Dark! 
And,  all  the  Day, — since  white-robed  Priest 

In  farthest  East, 
In  dawn's  first  ray, — began  the  Feast, — 

_     I — I  the  least, — 
Thy  least,  and  last  and  lowest  child 

I  called  on  Thee  ! 
Virgin !  did'st  hear  ?  my  words  were  wild ; 

Did'st  think  of  me  ? 


FEAST  OF  THE  ASSUMPTION.  59 

'  Dark  !  Dark !  Dark ! 
Alas  !  and  no  ! — the  Angels  bright 

With  wings  as  white 
As  a  dream  of  snow — in  Love  and  Light 

Flashed  on  thy  sight ; 
They  shone,  like  stars  around  Thee  !  Queen  ! — 

I  knelt  afar — 
A  Shadow  only  dims  the  scene 

Where  shines  a  star ! 

Dark!  Dark!  Dark! 
And  all  day  long, — beyond  the  sky 

Sweet, — pure, — and  high 
The  Angels'  song  swept  sounding  by 

Triumphantly ; — • 
And  when  such  music  filled  thy  ear 

Rose  round  thy  throne, — 
How  could  I  hope  that  thou  would'st  hear 

My  far,  faint  moan  ? 

Dark !  Dark  !  Dark  ! 
And  all  day  long, — where  altars  stand 

.;.     Or  poor  or  grand 
A  countless  throng — from  every  land 

.    With  lifted  hand, 
Winged  hymns  to  Thee  from  sorrow's  vale 

In  glad  acclaim, — 

How  could'st  thou  hear  my  lone  lips  wail 
Thy  sweet,  pure  Name  ? 

Dark!  Dark!  Dark! 
Alas  !  and  no, — Thou  did'st  not  hear 

Nor  bend  thy  ear, — 
To  prayer  of  woe — as  mine  so  drear ; 

For  hearts  more  dear 


60  FEAST  OF  THE  ASSUMPTION. 

Hid  me  from  hearing  and  from  sight 
This  bright  Feast-day  ; — 

Wilt  hear  me,  Mother   if  in  its  Night 
I  kneel  and  pray  ? 

Dark!  Dark!  Dark! 
The  sun  is  set, — the  Day  is  dead 

Thy  feast  hath  fled  ; 
My  eyes  are  wet  with  the  tears  I  shed — 

I  bow  my  head  ; — 
Angels  and  Altars  hailed  Thee  Queen 

All  day  ;— ah  !  be 
To-night  what  thou  hast  ever  been 

A  Mother  to  me  ! 

Dark!  Dark!  Dark! 
Thy  Queenly  Crown, — in  angel's  sight 

Is  fair  and  bright ; 
Ah !  lay  it  down  ;  for  oh  !  to-night 

Its  jewelled  light 
Shines  not  as  the  tender  love-light  shines 

O  Mary  !  mild, 
In  the  mother's  eyes,  whose  pure  heart  pines 

For  poor,  lost  child  1 

Dark !  Dark  !  Dark  ! 
Sceptre  in  hand, — Thou  dost  hold  sway 

Fore'er  and  aye. 
In  angel-land, — but  fair  Queen !  pray  ! 

Lay  it  away, — 
Let  thy  sceptre  wave  in  the  realms  above 

Where  angels  are  ; 
But,  Mother !  fold  in  thine  arms  of  love 

Thy  child  afar! 


SUXSUM  CORDA.  61 

Dark!  Dark!  Dark! 
Mary  !  I  call !  Wilt  hear  the  Prayer 

My  poor  lips  dare  ! 
Yea  !  be  to  all, — a  Queen  most  fair, 

Crown,  sceptre  bear  ! 
But  look  on  me  with  a  Mother's  eyes 

From  Heaven's  bliss  ; — 
And  waft  to  me  from  the  starry  skies 

A  mother's  kiss ! 

Dark!  Dark!  Dark! 
The  Sun's  is  set — the  Day  is  dead ; 

Her  feast  has  fled  ; — 
Can  she  forget  the  sweet  blood  shed, 

The  last  words  said 
That  evening — "  Woman !  behold  thy  Son  "  1 

Oh  !  priceless  Right ! 
Of  all  His  children,  the  last,  least  one 

Is  heard  to-night. 


SURSUM  CORDA. 

EARY  hearts  !  weary  hearts  !  by  the  cares  of  life 

oppressed, 
Ye  are  wand'ring  in  the  shadows — ye  are  sighing  fotf 

a  rest  : 
There  is  darkness  in  the  heavens,  and  the  earth  is  bleafe 

below, 

And  the  joys  we  taste  to-day  may  to-morrow  turn  to  woe. 
Weary  Hearts !  God  is  Rest. 


62  SUltSUM  CORDA. 

GLonely  Hearts  !  lonely  hearts  !  this  is  but  a  land  of  grief ; 

Ye  are  pining  for  repose — ye  are  longing  for  relief  : 

What  the  world  hath  never  given — Kneel,  and  ask  of  God 

above, 
jAnd  your  grief  shall  turn  to  gladness — if  you   lean  upon 

His  love. 

Lonely  Hearts  !  God  is  Love. 

Restless  Hearts  !  restless  hearts  !  ye  are  toiling  night  and  day, 
And  the  flowers  of  life  all  withered,  leave  but  thorns  along 

your  way  : 
Ye  are  waiting — ye  are  wailing  till  your  toilings  all  shall 

ce*ase, 

And  your  ev'ry  restless  beating  is  a  sad — sad  prayer  for  peace. 
'  Restless  Heart  !  God  is  Peace. 

(Breaking  Hearts !  broken  hearts  !  ye  are  desolate  and  lone, 
And  low  voices  from  the  Past  o'er  your  present  ruins  moan ! 
(In  the  sweetest  of  your  pleasures  there  was  bitterest  alloy — 
And  a  starless  night  hath  followed  on  the  sunset  of  your  joy. 
Broken  Hearts  !  God  is  Joy. 

Homeless  Hearts !    homeless   hearts !    through  the  dreary, 

dreary  years, 
Ye  are  lonely,  lonely  wand'rers,  and  your  way  is  wet  with 

tears ; 

In  bright  or  blighted  places,  wheresoever  ye  may  roam, 
Ye  look  away  from  earth-land  and  ye  murmur   "where  is 

home?". 

Homeless  Hearts  !  God  is  Home. 


"PRESENTIMENT." 


COMETH  a  Voice  from  a  Far-land  ! 

Beautiful,  sad  and  low, 
Shineth  a  Light  from  the  star-land  ! 
Down  on  the  Night  of  my  love, 
And  a  white  Hand,  with  a  garland 
Biddeth  my  spirit  to  go. 

Away  and  afar  from  the  Night-land 

Where  sorrow  o'ershadows  my  way, 

To  the  splendors  and  skies  of  the  Light-land 
Where  reigneth  Eternity's  Day, 

To  the  cloudless  and  shadowless  Bright-land 
Whose  sun  never  passeth  away. 

And  /  knew  the  voice  ; — not  a  sweeter 

On  earth  or  in  heaven  can  be ; 
And  never  did  shadow  pass  fleeter 

Than  it, — and  its  strange  melody  ; 
And  I  know  I  must  hasten  to  meet  her, 
"  Yea  !  Sister!  Thou  callest  to  me  "  ! 

And  /  saw  the  Light ; — 't  was  not  seeming, 
It  flashed  from  the  crown  that  she  wore, 

And  the  brow,  that,  with  jewels,  was  gleaming. 
My  lips  had  kissed  often  of  yore  ; 

And  the  eyes,  that  with  rapture  were  beaming, 
Had  smiled  on  me  sweetly  before. 


64  A  CHILD'S  WISH. 

And  I  saw  the  Hand  with  the  Garland, 
Ethel's  Hand — holy  and  fair  ; 

Who  went  long  ago  to  the  Far-land 

To  weave  me  the  wreath  I  shall  wear ; — 

And,  to-night,  I  look  up  to  the  Star-land 
And  pray  that  I  soon  may  be  there. 


A  CHILD'S  WISH. 

BEFORE   AN    ALTAR. 

WISH  I  was  the  little  key, 

That  locks  Love's  Captive  in, 
Ard  lets  him  out  to  go  and  free 
A  sinful  heart  from  sin. — 

I  wish  I  were  the  little  bell, 

That  tinkles  for  the  Host,— 
When  GOD  comes  down  each  day  to  dwell 

With  hearts  He  loves  the  most. — 

I  wish  I  were  the  chalice  fair, 
That  holds  the  Blood  of  Love, 

When  every  flash  lights  holy  prayer 
Upon  its  way  above. — 

I  wish  I  were  the  little  flower 
So  near  the  Host's  sweet  Face — 

Or  like  the  light  that  half  an  hour 
Burns  on  the  shrine  of  grace. — 


/  OFTEN  WONDER  WHY  'TIS  SO.          65 

I  wish  I  was  the  Altar,  where 

As  on  His  mother's  breast, 
Christ  nestles,  like  a  child,  fore'er 

In  Eucharistic  rest. 

But,  Oh  !  my  GOD  I  wish  the  most 

That  my  poor  heart  may  be, 
A  home  all  holy  for  each  Host 

That  comes  in  love  to  me, 


I  OFTEN  WONDER  WHY  'TIS  SO. 

OME  find  work  where  some  find  rest 
And  so  the  weary  world  goes  on  ;— 

I  sometimes  wonder  which  is  best  ? 
The  answer  comes  when  life  is  gone. 

Some  eyes  sleep  when  some  eyes  wake, 
And  so  the  dreary  night-hours  go  ; 

Some  hearts  beat  where  some  hearts  break— 
I  often  wonder  why  't  is  so. 

Some  wills  faint  where  some  wills  fight,— 
Some  love  the  tent, — and  some,  the  field  ?— 

I  often  wonder  who  are  right, — 

The  ones  who  strive,— or  those,  who  yield? 

Some  hands  fold  where  other  hands 
Are  lifted  bravely  in  the  strife  ; — 

And  so  thro'  ages  and  thro'  lands 
Move  on  the  two  extremes  of  life. 


66  WAKE  ME  A  SONG. 

Some  feet  halt  where  some  feet  tread, 
In  tireless  march,  a  thorny  way ; — 

Some  struggle  on  where  some  have  fled  ;— • 
Some  seek, — when  others  shun  the  fray. 

Some  swords  rust  where  others  clash,— 
Some  fall  back  where  some  move  on,— * 

Some  flags  furl  where  others  flash 
Until  the  battle  has  been  won. 

Some  sleep  on  while  others  keep 
The  vigils  of  the  true  and  brave  :— 

They  will  not  rest  till  roses  creep 
Around  their  name  above  a  grave. 


WAKE  ME  A  SONG. 


UT  of  the  Silences  wake  me  a  song, 

Beautiful,  sad,  and  soft  and  low  ; 
Let  the  loveliest  music  sound  along, 
And  wing  each  note  with  a  wail  of  woe. 
Dim  and  drear 
As  hope's  last  tear, 
Out  of  the  Silences  wake  me  a  hymn, 
Whose  sounds  are  like  shadows  soft  and  dim. 


IN  MEMORIAM.  67 

Out  of  the  Stillnesses  in  your  heart — 

A  thousand  songs  are  sleeping  there, — 
Wake  me  a  song,  thou  child  of  art  ! 
The  song  of  a  hope  in  a  last  despair, 
Dark  and  low, 
A  chant  of  woe, 

Out  of  the  stillness,  tone  by  tone, 
Cold  as  a  snow-flake,  low  as  a  moan. 

Out  of  the  darkness,  flash  me  a  song, 

Brightly  dark  and  darkly  bright ; — 
Let  it  sweep  as  a  lone  star  sweeps  along 

The  mystical  shadows  of  the  night. 

Sing  it  sweet, 

Where  nothing  is  drear,  or  dark  or  dim, 
And  earth-song  soars  into  heavenly  hymn. 


"IN  MEMORIAM/1 


O  !  Heart  of  mine  !  the  way  is  long, — 
The  night  is  dark, — the  place  is  far  ; 

Go  !  kneel  and  pray,  or  chant  a  song 
Beside  two  graves  where  Mary's  star 

Shines  o'er  two  children's  hearts  at  rest 
With  Mary's  medals  on  their  breast. 


'68  REVERIE. 

Go  !  Heart !  those  children  loved  you  so, 
Their  little  lips  prayed  oft  for  you  ! 

But  ah  !  those  necks  are  lying  low 

Round  which  you  twined  the  badge  of  Blue. 

Go  to  their  graves, — this  Virgin's  feast 
With  poet's  song  and  prayer  of  Priest. 

Go  !  like  a  pilgrim  to  a  shrine 

For  that  is  holy  ground  where  sleep 

Children  of  Mary  and  of  thine. 

Go  !  kneel,  and  pray  and  sing  and  weep  ;-— 

Last  summer  how  their  faces  smiled 

When  each  was  blessed  as  Mary's  child. 

***** 
My  heart  hath  gone  !  I  cannot  sing  ! 

Beside  those  children's  grave,  song  dies ; 
Hush  !  Poet ! Priest !  Prayer  hath  a  wing 

To  pass  the  stars  and  reach  the  skies  ; — 
Sweet  children  !  from  the  land  of  light 

Look  down  and  bless  my  Heart  to-night 


REVERIE. 

E  laugh  when  our  souls  are  the  saddest, 

We  shroud  all  our  griefs  in  a  smile ; 
Our  voices  may  warble  their  gladdest, 
And  our  souls  mourn  in  anguish  the  while. 


REVERIE.  69 

And  our  eyes  wear  a  summer's  bright  glory, 

When  winter  is  wailing  beneath  ;  " 
And  we  tell  not  the  world  the  sad  story 

Of  the  thorn  hidden  back  of  the  wreath. 

Ah !  fast  flow  the  moments  of  laughter, 

And  bright  as  the  brook  to  the  sea ; 
But  ah !  the  dark  hours  that  come  after 

Of  moaning  for  you  and  for  me. 

Yea,  swift  as  the  sunshine,  and  fleeting 

As  birds,  fly  the  moments  of  glee ! 
And  we  smile  ;  —and  mayhaps  grief  is  sleeting 

Its  ice  upon  you  and  on  me. 

And  the  clouds  of  the  tempest  are  shifting 
O'er  the  heart,  tho'  the  face  may  be  bright ; 

And  the  snows  of  woe's  winter  are  drifting 
Our  souls  ;  and  each  day  hides  a  night. 

For  ah !  when  our  souls  are  enjoying 

The  mirth  which  our  faces  reveal, 
There  is  something — a  something  -  alloying 

The  sweetness  of  joy  that  we  feel. 

Life's  loveliest  sky  hides  the  thunder, 

Whose  bolt  in  a  moment  may  fall, 
And  our  path  may  be  flowery;  but  under 

The  flowers  there  are  thorns  for  us  all 

Ah  !  'tis  hard  when  our  beautiful  dreamings, 

That  flash  down  the  valley  of  Night, 
Wave  their  wing  when  the  gloom  hides  their  gleaming^ 

And  leave  us,  like  eagles  in  flight ; 


70  REVERIE. 

And  fly  far  awav  unreturning, 

And  leave  us  in  terror  and  tears, 
While  vain  is  the  spirit's  wild  yearning 

That  they  may  come  back  in  the  years. 

Come  back  !  did  I  say  it  ?  but  never 
Do  eagles  come  back  to  the  cage : 

They  have  gone — they  have  gone — and  forever  ! 
Does  youth  come  back  ever  to  age  ? 

No  !  a  joy  that  has  left  us  in  sorrow 

Smiles  never  again  on  our  way; 
But  we  meet  in  the  farthest  To-morrow 

The  face  of  the  grief  of  To-day. 

The  brightness  whose  tremulous  glimmer 

Has  faded — we  cannot  recall ; 
And  the  Light  that  grows  dimmer  and  dimmer — 

When  gone — 'tis  forever  and  all. 

Not  a  ray  of  it  anywhere  lingers, 

Not  a  gleam  of  it  gilds  the  vast  gloom, 

Youth's  roses  perfume  not  the  fingers 
Of  age  groping  nigh  to  the  tomb. 

For  "the  memory  of  joy  is  a  sadness" — 
The  dim  twilight  after  the  day; — 

And  the  grave  where  we  bury  a  gladness 
Sends  a  grief,  like,  a  ghost,  on  our  way. 

No  day  shall  return  that  has  faded, 

The  dead  come  not  back  from  the  tomb ; 

The  vale  of  each  life  must  be  shaded, 
That  we  may  see  best  from  the  gloom. 

The  height  of  the  home  of  our  glory 

All  radiant  with  splendors  of  light- 
That  we  may  read  clearly  life's  story — 
"  The  Dark  is  the  Dawn  of  the  Bright." 


TEARS 

HE  tears  that  trickled  down  our  eyes, 
pf55*     They  do  not  .touch  the  earth  to-day; 
*   But  soar  like  angels  to  the  skies, — 
And  like  the  angels,  may  not  die  ; 
For  ah  !   our  immortality 
Flows  thro*  each  tear,— sounds  in  each  sigh. 

What  waves  of  tears  surge  o'er  the  deep 

Of  sorrow,  in  our  restless  souls  ! 
And  they  are  strong,  not  weak,  who  weep, 
Those  drops  from  out  the  sea  that  rolls 
Within  their  hearts  forevermore  ; 
Without  a  depth — without  a  shore. 

But  ah !  the  tears  that  are  not  wept, 
The  tears  that  never  outward  fall ; 
The  tears  that  grief  for  years  has  kept 
Within  us — they  are  best  of  all  : 

The  tears  our  eyes  shall  never  know, 
Are  dearer  than  the  tears  that  flow. 

Each  night  upon  earth's  flowers  below, 

The  dew  comes  down  from  darkest  skies, 
And  every  night  our  tears  of  woe 
Go  up  like  dews  to  Paradise, 

To  keep  in  bloom,  and  make  more  fair, 
The  flowers  of  crowns  we  yet  shall  wear. 


72  LINES. 

For  ah  !  the  surest  way  to  God 

Is  up  the  lonely  streams  of  tears, 
That  flow,  when  bending  'neath  His  rod, 
And  fill  the  tide  of  earthly  years. 

On  laughter's  billows  hearts  are  tossed, 
On  waves  of  tears  no  heart  is  lost. 

Flow  on,  ye  tears  !  and  bear  me  home  ; 

Flow  not !  ye  tears  of  deeper  woe  ; 
Flow  on,  ye  tears  !  that  are  but  foam 
Of  deeper  waves  that  will  not  flow. 
A  little  while — I  reach  the  shore 
Where  tears  flow  not  forevermore  1 


LINES. 

TWO    LOVES. 

WO  Loves  came  up  a  long,  wide  aisle 

And  knelt  at  a  low,  white  gate ; 
<?   One — tender  and  true,  with  the  shyest  smile, 
One — strong,  true  and  elate. 

Two  lips  spoke  in  a  firm,  true  way 
And  two  lips  answered  soft  and  low, 

In  one  true  hand  such  a  little  hand  lay 
Fluttering,  frail  as  a  flake  of  snow. 


THE  LAND    WE  LOVE.  73 

One  stately  head  bent  humbly  there, 

Stilled  were  the  throbbings  of  human  love 

One  head  drooped  down  like  a  lily  fair, 
Two  prayers  went,  wing  to  wing,  above. 

God  blest  them  both  in  the  holy  place, 

A  long — brief  moment ; — the  rite  was  done; 

On  the  human  love  fell  the  heavenly  grace, 
Making  two  hearts  forever  one. 

Between  two  lengthening  rows  of  smiles, 

One  sweetly  shy,  one  proud,  elate, — 
Two  Loves  passed  down  the  long,  wide  aisles, — 

Will  they  ever  forget  the  low,  white  gate  ? 


THE  LAND  WE  LOVE. 

AND  of  the  gentle  and  brave  ! 

Our  love  is  as  wide  as  thy  woe  \ 
r   It  deepens  beside  every  grave 

Where  the  heart  of  a  hero  lies  low. 

Land  of  the  sunniest  skies  ! 

Our  love  glows  the  more  for  thy  gloom  ; 
Our  hearts  by  the  saddest  of  ties, 

Cling  closest  to  thee  in  thy  doom. 


74  A   BLESSING. 

Land  where  the  desolate  weep 

In  a  sorrow  no  voice  may  console, 

Our  tears  are  but  streams  making  deep 
The  ocean  of  love  in  our  soul. 

Land  where  the  victor's  flag  waves, 
Where  only  the  dead  are  the  free  ; 

Each  link  of  the  chain  that  enslaves, 
But  binds  us  to  them  and  to  thee. 

Land  where  the  Sign  of  the  Cross 
Its  shadow  hath  everywhere  shed, 

We  measure  our  love  by  thy  loss, — 
Thy  loss — by  the  graves  of  our  dead 


A  BLESSING. 

E  you  near,  or  be  you  far ! 
Let  my  Blessing, — like  a  Star, 
Shine  upon  you  everywhere  ! 
And  in  each  lone  Evening-hour 
When  the  twilight  folds  the  flower, 
I  will  fold  thy  name  in  Prayer, 

In  the  Dark  and  in  the  Day — 
To  my  heart  you  know  the  way, 

Sorrow's  pale  hand  keeps  the  key;- 
In  your  sorrow  or  your  sin 
You  may  always  enter  in, — 

I  will  keep  a  place  for  thee. 


A  BLESSING.  75 

If  God's  blessing  pass  away 
From  your  spirit ; — if  you  stray 

From  his  presence, — do  not  wait. 
Come  to  my  heart, — for  I  keep, 
For  the  hearts  that  wail  and  weep, 

Ever  opened  wide,  a  Gate. 

In  your  joys, — to  others  go, — 
When  your  feet  walk  ways  of  woe 

Only  then  come  back  to  me  ; — 
I  will  give  you  tear  for  tear 
And  our  tears  shall  more  endear 

Thee  to  me  and  me  to  thee. 

For  I  make  my  heart  the  Home 
Of  all  hearts  in  grief  that  come 

Seeking  refuge  and  a  Rest. 
Do  not  fear  me, — for  you  know, — 
Be  your  footsteps  e'er  so  low 

I  know  yours,  of  all,  the  best. 

Once  you  came  ; — and  you  brought  sin  j— 
Did  not  my  hand  lead  you  in — 

Into  God's  Heart,  thro'  my  own  ? 
Did  not  my  voice  speak  a  word 
You,  for  years,  had  never  heard, — 

Mystic  word  in  Mercy's  tone  ? 

And  a  grace  fell  on  your  brow    • 
And  I  heard  your  murmured  vow, — 
When  I  whispered  :  "Go  in  peace," 
"Go  in  peace, — and  sin  no  more" — 
Did  you  not  touch  mercy's  shore  ? 
Did  not  sin's  wild  tempest  cease  ? 


76  ERIN'S  FLAG. 

Go  then  ! — thou  art  good  and  pure,— 
If  thou  e'er  shouldst  fall — be  sure — • 

Back  to  me  thy  footsteps  trace  I 
In  my  heart  for  year  and  year 
Be  thou  far  away  or  near 

I  shall  keep  for  thee — a  place. 

Yes  !  I  bless  you — near  or  far — • 
And  .my  blessing, — like  a  star 

Shall  shine  on  you  everywhere, — 
And  in  many  a  holy  hour, — 
As  the  sunshine  folds  the  flower, 

I  will  fold  thy  Heart  in  Prayer. 


ERIN'S   FLAG. 

p"NROLL  Erin's  flag  !  fling  its  folds  to  the  breeze  ! 
Let  it  float  o'er  the  land,  let  it  flash  o'er  the  seas  ; 
Lift  it  out  of  the  dust — let  it  wave  as  of  yore, 
When  its  chiefs  with  their  clans  stood  around  it  and 

swore 

That  never  ! — no  ! — never,  while  God  gave  them  life, 
And  they  had  an  arm  and  a  sword  for  the  strife, 
That  never  ! — no  ! — never,  that  Banner  should  yield 
As  long  as  the  heart  of  a  Celt  was  its  shield  ; 
While  the  hand  of  a  Celt  had  a  weapon  to  wield, 
And  his  last  drop  of  blood  was  unshed  on  the  field. 


FLAG.  77 

Lift  it  up  !  wave  it  high  ! — 'tis  .as  bright  as  of  old  ! 
Not  a  stain  on  its  Green,  not  a  blot  on  its  gold, 
Tho'  the  woes  and  the  wrongs  of  three  hundred  long  years 
Have  drenched  Erin's  Sunburst  with  blood  and  with  tears  ! 
Though  the  clouds  of  oppression  enshroud  it  in  gloom, 
And  around  it  the  thunders  of  Tyranny  boom. 
Look  aloft !  look  aloft !  lo  !  the  clouds  drifting  by, 
There's  a  gleam  through  the  gloom,  there's  a  light  in  the  sky. 
'Tis  the  Sunburst  resplendent — far,  flashing  on  high  ! 
Erin's  dark  night  is  waning ;  her  day  dawn  is  nigh  ! 

Lift  it  up  !  lift  it  up  !  the  old  Banner  of  Green  ! 

The  blood  of  its  sons  has  but  brightened  its  sheen ; 

What ! — though  the  Tyrant  has  trampled  it  down, 

Are  its  folds  not  emblazoned  with  deeds  of  renown  ? 

What ! — though  for  ages  it  droops  in  the  dust, 

Shall  it  droop  thus  forever?— no  !  no  !  God  is  just  ! 

Take  it  up  !  take  it  up  !    from  the  tyrant's  foul  tread, 

Let  him  tear  the  Green  Flag — we  will  snatch  its  last  shred; 

And  beneath  it  we'll  bleed  as  our  forefathers  bled, 

And  we'll  vow  by  the  dust  in  the  graves  of  our  dead. 

And  we'll  swear  by  the  blood  which  the  Briton  has  shed — 
And  we'll  vow  by  the  wrecks  which  through  Erin  he  spread-^ 
And  we'll  swear  by  the  thousands  who,  famished,  unfed, 
Died  down  in  the  ditches — wild-howling  for  bread. 
And  we'll  vow  by  our  heroes,  whose  spirits  have  fled  ; 
And  we'll  swear  by  the  bones  in  each  coffinless  bed, 
That  we'll  battle  the  Briton  through  danger  and  dread ; 
That  we'll  cling  to  the  cause  which  we  glory  to  wed, 
'Till  the  gleam  of  our  steel  and  the  shock  of  our  lead 
Shall  prove  to  our  foe  that  we  meant  what  we  said — 
That  we'll  lift  up  the  Green,  and  we'll  tear  down  the  Red. 


78  ERIN'S  FLAG. 

Lift  up  the  Green  Flag  !  oh  !  it  wants  to  go  nome  ; 
Full  long  has  its  lot  been  to  wander  and  roam  ; 
>It  has  followed  the  fate  of  its  sons  o'er  the  world, 
But  its  folds,  like  their  hopes,  are  not  faded  nor  furled  ; 
Like  a  weary-winged  bird,  to  the  East  and  the  West, 
It  has  flitted  and  fled — but  it  never  shall  rest, 
'Till,  pluming  its  pinions,  it  sweeps  o'er  the  main, 
And  speeds  to  the  shores  of  its  old  home  again, 
Where  its  fetterless  folds,  o'er  each  mountain  and  plain, 
Shall  wave  with  a  glory  that  never  shall  wane. 

Take  it  up  !  take  it  up  !  bear  it  back  from  afar — 
That  Banner  must  blaze  'mid  the  lightnings  of  war  ; 
Lay  your  hands  on  its  folds,  lift  your  gaze  to  the  sky, 
And  swear  that  you'll  bear  it  triumphant  or  die, 
And  shout  to  the  clans  scattered  far  o'er  the  earth, 
To  join  in  the  march  to  the  land  of  their  birth  ; 
And  wherever  the  Exiles,  'neath  heaven's  broad  dome, 
Have  been  fated  to  suffer,  to  sorrow  and  roam, 
They'll  bound  on  the  sea,  and  away  o'er  the  foam, 
They'll  sail  to  the  music  of  "  Home,  sweet  Home  "  ! 


JULY  9TH?  1872. 
BETWEEN  two  pillared  clouds  of  Gold 

f 

The  Beautiful  Gates  of  Evening  swung, — 
And  far  and  wide,  from  flashing  fold 

The  half-furled  Banners  of  Light,  that  hung,— 
O'er  green  of  wood  and  gray  of  wold — 
And  over  the  Blue  where  the  river  rolled 
The  fading  gleams  of  their  Glory,  flung. 

The  sky  wore  not  a  frown  all  day 

To  mar  the  smile  of  the  Morning-tide, 

The  soft-voiced  winds  sang  joyous  lay 

You  never  would  think  they  had  ever  sighed  ;— 

The  stream  went  on  its  sunlit  way 

In  ripples  of  laughter  ;  happy  they 
As  the  hearts  that  met  at  Riverside. 

No  cloudlet  in  the  sky  serene  ! 

Not  a  silver  speck  in  the  golden  hue  ! 
But  where  the  woods  waved  low  and  green, 

And  seldom  would  let  the  sunlight  through, 
Sweet  shadows  fell,  and  in  their  screen 
The  faces  of  children  might  be  seen 

And  the  flash  of  ribbons  of  blue. 


80  JULY  gt/i,  1872. 

It  was  a  children's  simple  feast, — 

Yet  many  were  there  whose  faces  told 

How  far  they  are  from  Childhood's  East 
Who  have  reached  the  Evening  of  the  Old ! 

And  Father, — Mother, — Sister, — Priest, — 

They  seemed  all  day  like  the  very  least 
Of  the  little  children  of  the  fold.— 

The  old  forgot  they  were  not  young 

The  young  forgot  they  would  e'er  be  old, 

And  all  day  long  the  trees  among 

Where'er  their  footsteps  stayed  or  strolled 

Came  wittiest  word  from  tireless  tongue 

And  the  merriest  peals  of  laughter  rung 

Where  the  woods  drooped  low  and  the  river  rolled. 

No  cloud  upon  the  faces  there, — 

Not  a  sorrow  came  from  its  hiding  place 

To  cast  the  shadow  of  a  care 

On  the  fair  sweet  brows  in  that  fairest  place  ; 

For  in  the  sky  and  in  the  air 

And  in  their  spirits  and  everywhere 

Joy  reigned  in  the  fullness  of  her  grace. 

The  Day  was  long, — but  ah !  too  brief  ! 

Swift  to  the  West  bright-winged  she  fled, — 
Too  soon  on  ev'ry  look  and  leaf 

The  last  rays  flushed  which  her  plumage  shed 
From  an  Evening  cloud, — was  it  a  sign  of  grief? 
And  the  bright  Day  passed, — is  there  much  relief 

That  its  Dream  dies  not  when  its  gleam  is  dead  ? — 

Great  sky !  thou  art  a  Prophet  still ! 

And  by  thy  shadows  and  by  thy  rays 
We  read  the  future  if  we  will 


A  DEATH.  8 1 

And  all  the  fates  of  our  future  ways,— 
To-morrows  meet  us  in  vale  and  hill, — 
And  under  the  trees  and  by  the  rill 

Thou  givest  the  sign  of  our  coming  days. 

That  Evening-cloud  was  a  Sign  I  ween,— 

For  the  sister  of  that  Summer-Day 
Shall  come  next  year  to  the  self-same  scene— 

The  winds  will  sing  the  self-same  lay — 
The  self-same  woods  will  wave  as  green, — 
And  Riverside  !  thy  skies  serene 
Shall  robe  thee  again  in  a  golden  sheen 
Yet  though  thy  shadows  may  weave  a  screen 
Where  the  children's  faces  may  be  seen 
Thou  ne'er  shall  be  as  thou  hast  been 

For  a  Face  they  loved  has  passed  away. 


A  DEATH. 

CRUSHED  with  a  burden  of  woe, 
Wrecked  in  the  tempest  of  sin. 
Death  came,  and  two  lips  murmured  low, 
"Ah  !  once  I  was  white  as  the  snow, 
In  the  happy  and  pure  long-ago  ; 
But  they  say  God  is  sweet — is  it  so  ? 
Will  he  let  a  poor  wayward  one  in  "  ? 


82  A  DEATH. 

"  In  where  the  innocent  are, 

Ah  !  Justice  stands  guard  at  the  gate — 
Does  it  mock  at  a  poor  sinner's  fate — 
Alas  !  I  have  fallen  so  far  ! 

Oh  God  !  Oh  my  God  !   Tis  too  late  \ 
I  have  fallen  as  falls  a  lost  star, 
The  sky  does  not  miss  the  gone  gleam  ; 
But  my  heart,  like  the  lost  star,  can  dream 
Of  the  sky  it  has  fall'ii  from.     Nay  ! 
I  have  wandered  too  far — far  away, 
Oh  !  would  that  my  mother  were  here  ; 
Is  God  like  a  mother  ?     Has  he 
Any  love  for  a  sinner  like  me  "  ? 

Her  face  wore  the  wildness  of  woe — 

Her  words,  the  wild  tones  of  despair ; 
Ah  !  how  can  a  heart  sink  so  low, 

How  a  face  that  was  once  bright  and  so  fair, 
Can  be  furrowed  and  darkened  with  care? 
Wild  rushed  the  hot  tears  from  her  eyes, 
From  her  lips  rushed  the  wildest  of  sighs, 
Her  poor  heart  was  broken  ;  but  then 
Her  God  was  far  gentler  than  men. 

A  voice  whispered  low  at  her  side, 

"Child  !  God  is  more  gentle  than  men, 
He  watches  by  Passion's  dark  tide, 

He  sees  a  wreck  drifting — and  then 
He  beckons  with  hand  and  with  voice, 

And  He  sees  the  poor  wreck  floating  in 
To  the  haven  on  Mercy's  bright  shore, 
And  he  whispers  the  whisper  of  yore  : 
'The  angels  of  Heaven  rejoice 

O'er  the  sinner  repenting  of  sin.'  " 


IN  MEMORIAM.  83 


And  a  silence  eame  down  for  awhile, 

And  her  lips  they  were  moving  in  prayer, 

And  her  face  it  wore  just  such  a  smile, 
As,  perhaps,  it  was  oft  wont  to  wear, 

Ere  the  heart  of  the  girl  knew  a  guile, 

Ere  the  soul  of  the  girl  knew  the  wile, 
That  had  led  her  to  Passion's  despair. 

Death's  shadows  crept  over  her  face, 
And  softened  the  hard  marks  of  care  ; 

Repentance  had  won  a  last  grace, 

And  the  Angel  of  Mercy  stood  there. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

DAVID    J.    RYAN,    C.    S.    A. 

HOU  art  sleeping,  Brother,  sleeping 

In  thy  lonely  battle  grave ; 
Shadows  o'er  the  past  are  creeping, 
Death,  the  reaper,  still  is  reaping, 
Years  have  swept,  and  years  are  sweeping 
Many  a  memory  from  my  keeping, 
But  I'm  waiting  still,  and  weeping 
For  my  Beautiful  and  Brave. 


84  IN  MEMORIAM. 

When  the  battle  songs  were  chaunted, 
And  war's  stirring  tocsin  pealed, 
By  those  songs  thy  heart  was  haunted, 
And  thy  spirit,  proud,  undaunted, 
Clamored  wildly — wildly  panted  ; 
"  Mother  !  let  my  wish  be  granted  ; 
I  will  ne'er  be  mocked  and  taunted 
That  I  feared  to  meet  our  vaunted 
Foemen  on  the  bloody  field." 

w  They  are  thronging,  mother  !  thronging, 
To  a  thousand  fields  of  fame ; 

Let  me  go — 'tis  wrong  and  wronging 

God  and  thee  to  crush  this  longing ; 

On  the  muster-roll  of  glory, 

In  my  country's  future  story, 

On  the  field  of  battle  gory 

I  must  consecrate  my  name. 

"  Mother  !  gird  my  sword  around  me, 

Kiss  thy  soldier-boy  '  good-bye.'" 
In  her  arms  she  wildly  wound  thee — 
To  thy  birth-land's  cause  she  bound  thee— 
With  fond  prayers  and  blessings  crowned  thee 
And  she  sobbed  :   "  When  foes  surround  thee, 
If  you  fall,  I'll  know  they  found  thee, 
Where  the  bravest  love  to  die." 

At  the  altar  of  their  nation, 

Stood  that  mother  and  her  son  ; 
He,  the  victim  of  oblation ; 
Panting  for  his  immolation  ; 
She,  in  priestess'  holy  station, 


IN  MEMORIAM.  85 

Weeping  words  of  consecration, 
While  God  smiled  his  approbation, 
Blessed  the  boy's  self-abnegation, 
Cheered  the  mother's  desolation, 
AVhen  the  sacrifice  was  done. 

Forth,  like  many  a  noble  other, 

Went  he,  whispering  soft  and  low 
"Good-bye—pray  for  me,  my  mother  ; 

Sister!  kiss  me  — farewell,  brother"; 

And  he  strove  his  grief  to  smother. 

Forth,  with  footsteps  firm  and  fearless, 

And  his  parting  gaze  was  tearless, 

Though  his  heart  was  lone  and  cheerless, 
Thus  from  all  he  loved  to  go. 

Lo  !  yon  flag  of  freedom  flashing 
In  the  sunny  Southern  sky  : 
On — to  death  and  glory  dashing, 
On — where  swords  are  clanging,  clashing. 
On  —where  balls  are  crushing,  crashing, 
On — 'mid  perils  dread,  appalling, 
On — they  're  falling,  falling,  falling, 
On — they  're  growing  fewer,  fewer, 
On— their  hearts  beat  all  the  truer, 

On — on — on,  —no  fear,  no  falter, 

On — though  round  the  battle-altar, 
There  were  wounded  victims  moaning, 
There  were  dying  soldiers  groaning  ;  — 
On, — right  on, — death's  danger  braving, 
Warring  where  their  flag  was  waving, 
While  Baptismal-blood  was  laving 

All  that  field  of  death  and  slaughter  ; — 
On — still  on  ; — that  bloody  laver 


86  IN  MEMORIAM. 

Made  them  braver  and  made  them  braver,  - 
On — with  never  a  halt  or  waver, — 
On  in  battle — bleeding — bounding 
While  the  glorious  shout  swept  sounding 
"We  will  win  the  day  or  die." 

And  they  won  it ; — routed, — riven 

Reeled  the  foemen's  proud  array : 
They  had  struggled  hard, — and  striven, 
Blood  in  torrents  they  had  given, 
But  their  ranks  dispersed  and  driven 
Fled,  in  sullenness,  away. 

Many  a  heart  was  lonely  lying 

That  would  never  throb  again, — 
Some  were  dead, — and  some  were  dying 
Those  were  silent, — these  were  sighing 
Thus  to  die  alone, — unattended, 
.Unbewept  and  unbefriended 

On  that  bloody  battle-plain. 

When  the  twilight  sadly,  slowly 

Wrapped  its  mantle  o'er  them  all, 
Thousands, — thousands  lying  lowly 
Hushed  in  silence  deep  and  holy, — 
There  was  one, — his  blood  was  flowing 
And  his  last  of  life  was  going, — 
And  his  pulse  faint, — fainter  beating 
Told  his  hours  were  few  and  fleeting, — 
And  his  brow  grew  white  and  whiter 
While  his  eyes  grew  strangely  brighter, — 
There  he  lay — like  infant  dreaming 
With  his  sword  beside  him  gleaming, — 
For  the  hand,  in  life,  that  grasped  it 


WHAT?  87 

True,  in  death,  still  fondly  clasped  it ; — 
There  his  comrades  found  him  lying 
'Mid  the  heaps  of  dead  and  dying, 
And  the  sternest  bent  down  weeping 
O'er  the  lonely  sleeper  sleeping  : 
'Twas  the  midnight ;  — stars  shone  round  him, — 
And  they  told  us  how  they  found  him 
Where  the  bravest  love  to  fall. 

Where  the  woods,  like  banners  bending, 

Drooped  in  starlight  and  in  gloom, — 
There,  when  that  sad  night  was  ending 
And  the  faint,"  far  dawn  was  blending 
With  the  stars  now  fast  descending, — 
There, — they  mute  and  mournful  bore  him 
With  the  stars  and  shadows  o'er  him, — 
And  they  laid  him  down — so  tender — 
And  the  next  day's  sun,  in  splendor 
Flashed  above  my  brother's  tomb. 


WHAT? 

TO     ETHEL. 

fT  the  golden  gates  of  the  Visions 

I  knelt  me  adown,  one  day, 
But  sudden  my  prayer  was  a  silence, 

For  I  heard  from  the  "  Far  away," 
The  murmur  of  many  voices 

And  a  silvery  censer's  sway. 


88  WHA  T? 

I  bowed  in  awe,  and  I  listened — 
The  deeps  of  my  soul  were  stirred, 

But  deepest  of  all  was  the  meaning 
Of  the  far  off  music  I  heard, 

And  yet  it  was  stiller  than  silence, — 
Its  notes  were  the  "  Dream  of  a  Word." 

A  word  that  is  whispered  in  Heaven 
But  cannot  be  heard  below, 

It  lives  on  the  lips  of  the  angels 
Where'er  their  pure  wings  glow, 

Yet  only  the  "  Dream  of  its  Echo" 
Ever  reaches  this  valley  of  woe. 

But  I  know  the  Word  and  its  meaning, — 
'  I  reached  to  jjs  height  that  day, 
When  prayer  sank  into  a  silence 

And  my  heart  was  so  far  away, 
But  I  may  not  murmur  the  music, 

Nor  the  Word  may  my  lips  yet  say. 

But  some  day  far  in  the  future, 
And  up  from  the  dust  of  the  dead, 

And  out  of  my  lips  when  speechless 
The  mystical  word  shall  be  said, 

'Twill  come  to  thee,  still  as  a  spirit, 
When  the  soul  of  the  Bard  has  fled. 


A  "THOUGHT-FLOWER." 

SILENTLY, — shadowly,  some  lives  go, — 

And  the  sound  of  their  voices  is  all  unheard, — 
Or  if  heard  at  all,  'tis  as  faint  as  the  flow 

Of  beautiful  waves  which  no  storm  hath  stirred. 
Deep  lives  these, — 
As  the  pearl-strewn  seas. 

Softly  and  noiselessly  some  feet  tread 

Lone  ways  on  earth,  without  leaving  a  mark, — 
They  move  'mid  the  living, — they  pass  to  the  dead' 
As  still  as  the  gleam  of  a  star  thro'  the  dark. 
Sweet  lives  those 
In  their  strange  repose. 

Calmly  and  lowly  some  hearts  beat, 

And  none  may  know  that  they  beat  at  all ; — 
They  muffle  their  music  whenever  they  meet 
A  few  in  a  hut  or  a  crowd  in  a  hall. 
Great  hearts  those — 
God  only  knows ! 

Soundlessly, — shadowly,  such  move  on, 

Dim  as  the  dream  of  a  child  asleep  ; 

And  no  one  knov/eth  'till  they  are  gone 

How  lofty  thiir  souls, — their  hearts  how  deep  ; — 
Bright  souls  these — 
God  only  sees. 


THE  MASTER'S  VOICE. 

Lonely  and  hiddenly  in  the  world, — 

Tho'  in  the  world  'tis  their  lot  to  stay,— 
The  tremulous  wings  of  their  hearts  are  furled 
Until  they  fly  from  the  world  away 
And  find  their  rest 
On  "Our  Father's"  breast,— 
Where  earth's  unknown  shall  be  known  the  best, 
And  the  hidden  hearts  shall  be  brightest  blest. 


THE  MASTER'S  VOICE. 

HE  waves  were  weary,  and  they  went  to  sleep  ; 
The  winds  were  hushed, 
The  starlight  flushed 
The  furrowed  face  of  all  the  mighty  deep, 

The  billows  yester  eve  so  dark  and  wild, 

Wore  strangely  now — 

A  calm  upon  their  brow, 
Like  that  which  rests  upon  a  cradled  child. 

The  sky  was  bright,  and  every  single  star, 

With  gleaming  face, 

Was  in  its  place, 
And  looked  upon  the  sea — so  fair  and  far. 

And  all  was  still — still  as  a  temple  dim — 

When  low  and  faint 

As  murmurs  plaint 
Dies  the  last  note  of  the  vesper  hymn. 


THE  MASTERS  VOICE.  91 

A  bark  slept  on  the  sea, — and  in  the  bark 

Slept  Mary's  Son— 

The  only  One 
Whose  Face  is  light !  where  all,  all  else,  is  dark. 

His  brow  was  heavenward  turned,  His  face  was  fair  ; 

He  dreamed  of  me 

On  that  still  sea — 
The  stars  He  made  were  gleaming  through  His  hair. 

And,  lo !  a  moan  moved  o'er  the  mighty  deep, 

The  sky  grew  dark ! 

The  little  bark 
Felt  all  the  waves  awaking  from  their  sleep. 

The  winds  wailed  wild,  and  wilder  billows  beat ; 

The  bark  was  tossed  : 

Shall  all  be  lost  ? 
But  Mary's  Son  slept  on,  serene  and  sweet. 

The  tempest  raged  in  all  its  mighty  wrath, 

The  winds  howled  on, 

All  hope  seemed  gone, 
And  darker  waves  surged  round  the  bark's  lone  patnr 

The  sleeper  \v'oke  !     He  gazed  upon  the  deep- 
He  whispered  :  "  Peace  ! 
Winds — wild  waves,  cease  ! 

Be  still"  !     The  tempest  fled — the  ocean  fell  asleep. 

And,  ah !  when  human  hearts  by  storms  are  tossed  \ 

When  life's  lone  bark 

.Drifts  through  the  dark, 
And  'mid  the  wildest » waves  where  all  seems  lost, 


92  DEATH. 

He  now,  as  then,  with  words  of  power  and  peace, 
Murmurs  :  "  Stormy  deep, 
Be  still— still— and  sleep  "  ! 

And,  lo  !  a  great  calm  comes — the  tempest's  perils  cease. 


DEATH. 

ll  UT  of  the  shadows  of  sadness, 

to  the  sunshine  of  gladness, 
Into  the  light  of  the  blest; 
Out  of  a  land  very  dreary, 
Out  of  the  world  very  weary, 
Into  the  Rapture  of  Rest. 

Out  of  To-day's  sin  and  sorrow, 
Into  a  blissful  To-morrow, 

Into  a  day  without  gloom  ; — 
Out  of  a  land  filled  with  sighing, 
Land  of  the  dead  and  the  dying, 

Into  a  land  without  tomb. 

Out  of  a  life  of  commotion 
Tempest-swept  oft  as  the  ocean, 

Dark  with  the  wrecks  drifting  o'er, 
Into  a  land  calm  and  quiet, 
Never  a  storm  cometh  night  it, 

Never  a  wreck  on  its  shore. 


THE  ROSARY  OF  MY  TEARS.  93 

Out  of  a  land  in  whose  bowers 
Perish  and  fade  all  the  flowers, 

Out  of  the  land  of  decay— 
Into  the  Eden  where  fairest 
Of  flowerlets — and  sweetest  and  rarest 

Never  shall  wither  away. 

Out  of  the  world  of  the  wailing 
Thronged  with  the  anguished   and  ailing, 

Out  of  the  world  of  the  sad, 
Into  the  world  that  rejoices, 
World  of  bright  visions  and  voices, 

Into  the  world  of  the  glad. 

Out  of  a  life  ever  mournful, 
Out  of  a  land  very  lornful 

Where  in  bleak  exile  we  roam  ; — 
Into  a  joy-land  above  us 
Where  there's  a  Father  to  love  us,— 

Into  our  Home, — "  Sweet  Home." 


THE  ROSARY  OF  MY  TEARS. 

OME  reckon  their  age  by  years, 

Some  measure  their  life  by  art ; 
But  some  tell  their  days  by  the  flow  of  their  tears, 
And  their  lives  by  the  moans  of  their  heart. 


94  THE  ROSARY  OF  MY  TEARS. 

The  dials  of  earth  may  show 

The  length, — not  the  depth  of  years, 

Few  or  many  they  come, — few  or  many  they  go, 
But  Time  is  best  measured  by  tears. 

Ah  !  not  by  the  silver  gray 

That  creeps  thro'  the  sunny  hair, 
And  not  by  the  scenes  that  we  pass  on  our  way 

And  not  by  the  furrows,  the  fingers  of  care 

On  forehead  and  face  have  made. 

Not  so  do  we  count  our  years ; 
Not  by  the  sun  of  the  earth,  but  the  shade 

Of  our  souls,  and  the  fall  of  our  tears. 

For  the  young  are  oft-times  old, 

Though  their  brows  be  bright  and  fair  ; 

While  their  blood  beats  warm,  their  hearts  are  cold — 
O'er  them  the  Spring — but  Winter  is  there. 

And  the  old  are  oft-times  young, 
When  their  hair  is  thin  and  white ; 

And  they  sing  in  age,  as  in  youth  they  sung, 
And  they  laugh,  for  their  cross  was  light. 

But,  bead  by  bead,  I  tell 

The  Rosary  of  my  years  ; 
From  a  cross — to  a  cross  they  lead  ;  'tis  well, 

And  they're  blest  with  a  blessing  of  tears. 

Better  a  day  of  strife, 

Than  a  century  of  sleep  ; 
Give  me  instead  of  a  long  stream  of  life 

The  tempests  and  tears  of  the  deep. 

A  thousand  joys  may  foam 

On  the  billows  of  all  the  years ; 
But  never  the  foam  brings  the  lone  back  home, — 

It  reaches  the  haven  through  tears. 


A  REVERIE. 

HOSE  hearts  of  ours — how  strange  !  how  strange  f 
How  they  yearn  to  ramble  and  love  to  range 

Down  through  the  vales  of  the  years  long  gone, 

Up  through  the  future  that  fast  rolls  on. 

To-days  are  dull — so  they  wend  their  ways 
Back  to  their  beautiful  yesterdays  ; 
The  present  is  blank — so  they  wing  their  flight 
To  future  to-morrows  where  all  seems  bright. 

Build  them  a  bright  and  beautiful  home, 
They'll  soon  grow  weary  and  want  to  roam  ; 
Find  them  a  spot  without  sorrow  or  pain, 
They  may  stay  a  day,  but  they're  off  again. 

Those  hearts  of  ours — how  wild  !  how  wild  ! 
They're  as  hard  to  tame  as  an  Indian  child  ; 
They're  as  restless  as  waves  on  the  sounding  sea, 
Like  the  breeze  and  the  bird — are  they  fickle  and  free. 

Those  hearts  of  ours — how  lone  !  how  lone  ! 
Ever,  forever  they  mourn  and  moan  ; 
Let  them  revel  in  joy— let  them  riot  in  cheer, 
The  revelry  o'er  they're  all  the  more  drear. 

Those  hearts  of  ours — how  warm  !  how  warm  ! 
Like  the  sun's  bright  rays,  like  the  summer's  charm  ; 
How  they  beam  and  burn  !  how  they  gleam  and  glowt 
Their  flash  and  flame  hide  but  ashes  below. 


96  A  REVERIE, 

Those  hearts  of  ours — how  cold  !  how  cold  ! 
Like  December's  snow  on  the  waste  or  wold  ; 
And  though  our  Decembers  melt  soon  into  May — 
Hearts  know  Decembers  that  pass  not  away. 

Those  hearts  of  ours — how  deep  !  how  deep  ! 
You  may  sound  the  sea  where  the  corals  sleep, 
Where  never  a  billow  hath  rumbled  or  rolled — 
Depths  still  the  deeper  our  hearts  hide  and  hold. 

Where  the  wild  storm's  tramp  hath  ne'er  been  known 
The  wrecks  of  the  sea  lie  low  and  lone  ; 
Thus  the  heart's  surface  may  sparkle  and  glow, 
There  are  wrecks  far  down, — there  are  graves  below. 

Those  hearts  of  ours — but,  after  all, 
How  shallow  and  narrow,  how  tiny  and  small ; 
Like  scantiest  streamlet  or  Summer's  least  rill 
They're  as  easy  to  empty, — as  easy  to  fill. 

One  hour  of  storm  and  how  the  streams  pour  ! 
One  hour  of  sun  and  the  streams  are  no  more  ; 
One  little  grief ; — how  the  tears  gush  and  glide  ! 
One  smile,  flow  they  ever  so  fast ; — they  are  dried. 

Those  hearts  of  ours — how  wise  !  how  wise  ! 
They  can  lift  their  thoughts  'till  they  touch  the  skies  ; 
They  can  sink  their  shafts,. like  a  miner  bold, 
Where  wisdom's  mines  hide  their  pearls  and  gold. 

Aloft  they  soar  with  undazzled  gaze 
Where  the  halls  of  the  Day-King  burn  and  blaze  ; 
Or  they  fly  with  a  wing  that  will  never  fail 
O'er  the  sky's  dark  sea  where  the  star-ships  sail. 


OLD  TREES.  97 

Those  hearts  of  ours — what  fools  !  what  fools  ! 
How  they  laugh  at  wisdom,  her  cant  and  rules  ! 
How  they  waste  their  powers,  and  when  wasted  grieve 
For  what  they  have  squandered  but  cannot  retrieve. 

Those  hearts  of  ours — how  strong  !  how  strong  ! 
Let  a  thousand  sorrows  around  them  throng, 
They  can  bear  them  all,  and  a  thousand  more, 
And  they're  stronger  then  than  they  were  before. 

Those  hearts  of  ours — how  weak  !  how  weak  ! 
But  a  single  word  of  unkindness  speak, 
Like  a  poisoned  shaft, — like  a  viper's  fang 
That  one  slight  word  leaves  a  life-long  pang. 

Those  hearts  of  ours — but  .I've  said  enough, 
As  I  find  that  my  rhyme  grows  rude  and  rough ; 
I'll  rest  me  now,  but  I'll  come  again 
Some  other  day  to  resume  my  strain. 


OLD  TREES. 

I LD  trees  !  old  trees  !  in  your  mystic  gloom 
There's  many  a  warrior  laid, 
many  a  nameless  and  lonely  tomb 
Is  sheltered  beneath  your  shade. 
Old  trees  !  old  trees  !  without  pomp  or  prayer 

We  buried  the  brave  and  the  true 
We  fired  a  volley  and  left  them  there 
To  rest,  old  trees,  with  you. 


98  A  THOUGHT. 


Old  trees,  old  trees,  keep  watch  and  ward 

Over  each  grass  grown  bed, 
'Tis  a  glory,  old  trees,  to  stand  as  guard 

Over  our  Southern  Dead  ; 
Old  trees,  old  trees,  we  shall  pass  away 

Like  the  leaves  you  yearly  shed, 
But  ye  !  lone  sentinels,  still  must  stay, 

Old  trees  !  to  guard  "  Our  Dead." 


A  THOUGHT. 

HERE  never  was  a  Valley  without  a  faded  flower, 
There  never  was  a  Heaven  without  some  little 

cloud, 
The  face  of  day  may  flash  with  light  in  any  morning 

hour, 

But  evening  soon  shall  come  with  her  shadow-woven 
shroud. 

• 
There  never  was  a  River  without  its  mists  of  gray, 

There  never  was  a  Forest  without  its  fallen  leaf ; 
And  joy  may  walk  beside  us  down  the  windings  of  our 

way, 

When  lo  !  there  sounds  a  footstep,  and  we  meet  the 
face  of  Grief. 

There  never  was  a  sea-shore  without  its  drifting  wreck, 

There  never  was  an  ocean  without  its  moaning  wave, 

\nd  the  golden  gleams  of  glory,  the  summer  sky  that 

fleck, 

Shine  where  dead  stars  are  sleeping  in  their  azure- 
mantled  grave. 


A  THOUGHT.  99 

There  never  was  a  streamlet,  however  crystal  clear, 

Without  a  shadow  resting  in  the  ripples  of  its  tide, 
Hope's  brightest  robes  are  broidered  with  the  sable 

fringe  of  fear — 

And  she  lures  us,  but  abysses  girt  her  path  on  either 
side. 

The  shadow  of  the  mountain  falls  athwart  the  lowly 

plain. 
And  the  shadow  of  the  cloudlet  hangs  above  the 

mountain's  head — 
And  the  highest  hearts  and  lowest  wear  the  shadow  of 

some  pain. 

And  the  smile  has  scarcely  flitted  ere  the  anguish'd 
tear  is  shed. 

For  no  eyes  have  there  been  ever  without  a  weary  tear, 
And  those  lips  cannot  be  human  which  have  never 

heaved  a  sigh ; 
For  without  the  dreary  winter  there  has  never  been  a 

year, 

And  the  tempests  hide  their  terrors  in  the  calmest 
summer  sky. 

The  cradle  means  the  coffin,  and  the  coffin  means  the 

grave ; 
The  mother's  song  scarce  hides  the  De  Profundis  of 

the  Priest— 

You  may  cull  the  fairest  roses  any  May  day  ever  gave, 
But  they  wither  while  you  wear  them  ere  the  ending 
of  your  Feast. 

So  this  dreary  life  is  passing — and  we  move  amid  its' 

maze, 

And  we  grope  along  together,  half  in  darkness,  half 
in  light ; 


TOO  A   THOUGHT. 

And  our  hearts  are  often  burdened  by  the  mysteries  of 

our  ways, 

Which  are  never  all  in  shadow  and  are  never  wholly 
bright. 

And  our  dim  eyes  ask  a  beacon,  and  our  weary  feet  a 

guide, 

And  our  hearts  of  all  life's  mysteries  seek  the  mean 
ing  and  the  key ; 
And  a  Cross  gleams  o'er  our  pathway,  on  it  hangs  the 

Crucified, 

And  He  answers  all  our  yearnings  by  the  whisper, 
"Follow  me." 

Life  is  a  Burden, — bear  it ; 

Life  is  a  Duty, — dare  it ; 

Life  is  a  thorn-crown, — wear  it, 

Though  it  break  your  heart  in  twain  ; 

Though  the  Burden  crush  you  down. 
Close  your  lips, — and  hide  your  pain, 
First  the  Cross  -  and  then — the  Crown. 


1 


IN  ROME. 

T  last ;  the  dream  of  youth 

Stands  fair  and  bright  before  me ; 
The  sunshine  of  the  Home  of  Truth 
Falls  tremulously  o'er  me. 

And  Tower  and  Spire  and  lofty  Dome 

In  brightest  skies  are  gleaming  ; — 
Walk  I,  to-day,  the  ways  of  Rome  ? 

Or  am  I  only  dreaming  ? 

No, — 'tis  no  dream  ; — my  very  eyes 

Gaze  on  the  Hill-tops  seven  ; 
Where  crosses  rise  and  kiss  the  skies 

And  grandly  point  to  Heaven. 

Grey  ruins  loom  on  ev'ry  side, 

Each  stone  an  Age's  story ; — 
They  seem  the  very  ghosts  of  Pride 

That  watch  the  grave  of  glory. 

There  senates  sat,  whose  sceptre  sought 

An  empire  without  limit ; 
There  Grandeur  dreamed  its  dream  and  thought 

That  Death  would  never  dim  it. 

There  rulers  reigned  ; — yon  heap  of  stones 

Was  once  their  gorgeous  palace  ; 
Beside  them  now,  on  altar-thrones, 

The  priests  lift  up  the  chalice. 


I0a  IN  ROMS. 

There  legions  marched  with  bucklers  bright, 
And  lances  lifted  o'er  them  ; 

While  flags,  like  eagles  plumed  for  flight, 
Unfurled  their  wings  before  them. 

There  poets  sang, — whose  deathless  name 
Is  linked  to  deathless  verses ; 

There  heroes  hushed  with  shouts  of  fame 
Their  trampled  victims'  curses. 

There  marched  the  warriors  back  to  Home, 
Beneath  yon  crumbling  portal ; 
And  placed  upon  the  brow  of  Rome 
The  proud  crown  of  Immortal. 

There  soldiers  stood  with  armor  on 
In  steel-clad  ranks  and  serried  ; 

The  while  their  red  swords  flashed  upon 
The  slaves  whose  rights  they  buried. 

Here  Pagan  Pride,  with  sceptre,  stood, 
And  Fame  would  not  forsake  it, — 

Until  a  simple  Cross  of  Wood 
Came  from  the  East  to  break  it. 

That  Rome  is  dead, — here  is  the  grave, — 

Dead  glory  rises  never, — 
And  countless  Crosses  o'er  it  wave 

And  will  wave  on  forever. 

Beyond  the  Tiber  gleams  a  Dome 
Above  the  Hill-tops  seven  ; — 

It  arches  o'er  the  world  from  Rome 
And  leads  the  world  to  Heaven. 

Dec.  6th,  1872. 


AFTER  SICKNESS. 

NEARLY  died  ; — I  almost  touched  the  Door 
That  swings  between  Forever  and  No-more ; 
I  think  I  heard  the  awful  hinges  grate, — 
Hour  after  hour,  while  I  did  weary  wait 
Death's  coming  ; — but  alas  !   'twas  all  in  vain. 
The  Door  half-opened  and  then  closed  again. 

What  were  my  thoughts  ?     I  had  but  one  regret, 
That  I  was  doomed  to  live  and  linger  yet 
In  this  dark  valley  where  the  stream  of  tears 
Flows, — and  in  flowing,  deepens  thro'  the  years. 
My  lips  spake  not, — my  eyes  were  dull  and  dim, 
But  thro'  my  heart  there  moved  a  soundless  hymn,- 
A  triumph-song  of  many  chords  and  keys — 
Transcending  language, — as  the  summer  breeze 
Which,  through  the  forest,  mystically,  floats, 
Transcends  the  reach  of  mortal  music's  notes. 
A  song  of  victory, — a  chant  of  bliss — 
Wedded  to  words,  it  might  have  been  like  this  ;•— 

"Come  !  Death  !  but  I  am  fearless, 

I  shrink  not  from  your  frown, — 
The  eyes  you  close  are  tearless, — 

Haste  !  strike  this  frail  form  down, 
Come  !  there  is  no  dissembling 

In  this  last,  solemn  hour, — 
But  you'll  find  my  heart  untrembling 

Before  your  awful  power. 
My  lips  grow  pale  and  paler, 


104  AFTER  SICKNESS. 

My  eyes  are  strangely  dim, 
I  wail  not  as  a  wailer, 

I  sing  a  victor's  hymn. 
My  limbs  grow  cold  and  colder,— 

My  room  is  all  in  gloom, — 
Bold  Death  I—but  I  am  bolder — 

Come, — lead  me  to  my  tomb. 
'Tis  cold  and  damp  and  dreary, 

'Tis  still  and  lone  and  deep, — 
Haste,  Death  !  my  eyes  are  weary, 

I  want  to  fall  asleep. 
Strike  quick  !     Why  dost  thou  tarry  ? 

Of  time,  why  such  a  loss  ? 
Dost  fear  the  sign  I  carry  ? 

'Tis  but  a  simple  Cross. 
Thou  will  not  strike  ? — then  hear  me — 

Come  !  strike  in  any  hour, — 
My  heart  shall  never  fear  thee 

Nor  flinch  before  thy  power. 
I'll  meet  thee — Time's  dread  lictor — 

And  my  wasted  lips  shall  sing  : — 
Dread  Death  ! — I  am  the  Victor — 

Strong  Death  !  where  is  thy  sting?'" 

MILAN,  Jan.,  1873. 


AFTER  SEEING  PIUS  IX. 

SAW  his  face  to-day ; — he  looks  a  chief 
Who  fears  nor  human  rage,  nor  human  guile  ;- 
Upon  his  cheeks  the  twilight  of  a  grief, 

But  in  that  grief  the  starlight  of  a  smile. 
Deep,  gentle  eyes,  with  drooping  lids  that  tell 
They  are  the  homes  where  tears  of  sorrow  dwell ; 
A  low  voice — strangely  sweet — whose  very  tone 
Tells  how  these  lips  speak  oft  with  God  alone. 
I  kissed  his  hand, — I  fain  would  kiss  his  feet — 
"  No, — No  ;"  he  said — and  then  in  accents  sweet 
His  blessing  fell  upon  my  bended  head, — 
He  bade  me  rise  ;— a  few  more  words  he  said, 
Then  took  me  by  the  hand — the  while  he  smiled — 
And,  going,  whispered  ; — "  Pray  for  me,  my  child." 


SENTINEL  SONGS. 


HEN  falls  the  soldier  brave 
gpP^     Dead — at  the  feet  of  wrong, — 
jS3>  The  poet  sings — and  guards  his  grave 
With  sentinels  of  song. 

Songs  !  march  !   he  gives  command, 

Keep  faithful  watch  and  true  ; 
The  living  and  dead  of  the  Conquered  Land 

Have  now  no  guards,  save  you. 

•Gray  Ballads  !  mark  ye  well ! 

Thrice  holy  is  your  trust ! 
Go  !  halt  !  by  the  fields  where  warriors  fell, 
Rest  arms  !  and  guard  their  dust. 

List !  Songs  !  your  watch  is  long  ! 

The  soldiers'  guard  was  brief, 
Whilst  right  is  right,  and  wrong  is  wrong — 

Ye  may  not  seek  relief. 

Go  !  wearing  the  gray  of  grief  ! 

Go  !  watch  o'er  the  Dead  in  Gray  ! 
Go  guard  the  private  and  guard  the  chief, 

And  sentinel  their  clay  ! 

And  the  songs — in  stately  rhyme, 
And  with  softly  sounding  tread, 

Go  forth,  to  watch  for  a  time — a  time, 
Where  sleep  the  Deathless  Dead. 


SENTINEL  SONGS.  107 

And  the  songs — like  funeral  dirge, 

In  music  soft  and  low, 
Sing  round  the  graves — whilst  hot  tears  surge 

From  hearts  that  are  homes  of  woe. 

What !  tho'  no  sculptured  shaft 

Immortalize  each  brave  ? 
What  tho'  no  monument  epitaphed 

Be  built  above  each  grave? 

When  marble  wears  away 

And  monuments  are  dust,— 
The  songs  that  guard  our  soldiers'  clay 

Will  still  fulfil  their  trust. 

With  lifted  head,  and  steady  tread, 

Like  stars  that  guard  the  skies, 
Go  watch  each  bed,  where  rest  the  dead, 

Brave  songs  !  with  sleepless  eyes. 


When  falls  the  cause  of  Right, 

The  poet  grasps  his  pen 
And  in  gleaming  letters  of  living  light 

Transmits  the  Truth  to  men. 

Go,  Songs  !  he  says,  who  sings, 
.  Go  !  tell  the  world  this  tale,— 
Bear  it  afar  on  your  tireless  wings, 
The  Right  will  yet  prevail. 

Songs  !  sound  !  like  the  thunder's  breath  ! 

Boom  o'er  the  world — and  say, 
Brave  men  may  die, — Right  has  no  death, 

Truth  never  shall  pass  away! 


io8  SENTINEL  SONGS. 

Go  !  sing  !  thro'  a  nation's  sighs- 
Go  !  sob  !  thro'  a  people's  tears  ! 

Sweep  the  horizons  of  all  the  skies, 
And  throb  through  a  thousand  years ! 


And  the  songs,  with  brave,  sad  face, 

Go  proudly  down  their  way — 
Wailing  the  loss  of  a  conquered  race, 

And  waiting — an  Easter-day. — 

Away,  away  !  like  the  birds, 

They  soar  in  their  flight  sublime ; 

And  the  waving  wings  of  the  poet's  words 
Flash  down  to  the  end  of  time. 

When  the  Flag  of  Justice  fails, 
Ere  its  folds  have  yet  been  furled, 

The  poet  waves  its  .folds  in  wails 
That  flutter  o'er  the  world. 

Songs,  march  !  and  in  rank  by  rank 

The  low,  wild  verses  go, 
To  watch  the  graves,  where  the  grass  is  dank, 

And  the  martyrs  sleep  below. 

Songs,  halt !  where  there  is  no  name, 
Songs,  stay  !  where  tbere  is  no  stone, 

And  wait  till  you  hear  the  feet  of  Fame 
Coming  to  where  ye  moan. 

And  the  songs — with  lips  that  mourn 
And  with  hearts  that  break  in  twain, 

At  the  beck  of  the  bard — a  hope  forlorn 
Watch  the  plain  where  sleep  the  slain. 


SENTINEL  SONGS.  109 

When  the  warrior's  sword  is  lowered, 

Ere  its  stainless  sheen  grows  dim 
The  bard  flings  forth  its  dying  gleam 

On  the  wings  of  a  deathless  hymn. 

Songs,  fly  far  o'er  the  world 

And  adown  to  the  end  of  time  : — 
Let  the  Sword  still  flash,— tho'  its  flag  be  furled, 

Thro'  the  sheen  of  the  poet's  rhyme. 

Songs,  fly  as  the  eagles  fly, 

The  bard  unbars  the  cage, 
Go  soar  away — and  afar  and  high 

Wave  your  wings  o'er  every  age! 

Shriek  shrilly  o'er  each  day, 

As  future-ward  ye  fly, 
That  the  men  were  right  who  wore  the  gray 

And  Right  can  never  die. 

And  the  songs,  with  waving  wing, 

Fly  far — float  far  away 
From  the  ages'  crests,  o'er  the  world  they  fling 

The  shade  of  the  stainless  gray. 

Might !  sing  your  triumph-songs  ! 

Each  song  but  sounds  a  shame — 
Go !  down  the  world,  in  loud-voiced  throngs 

To  win,  irom  the  future,  fame. 

Our  ballads,  born  of  tears, 

Will  track  you  on  your  way, 
And  win  the  hearts  of  the  future  years 

For  the  men  who  wore  the  gray. 


no  SENTINEL  SONGS. 

And  so — say  what  you  will, — 

In  the  heart  of  God's  own  laws 
I  have  a  faith,  and  my  heart  believes  still 

In  the  triumph  of  our  cause. 

/ 
Such  hope  may  all  be  vain 

And  futile  be  such  trust ; 
But  the  weary  eyes  that  weep  the  slain, 

And  watch  above  such  dust — • 

They  cannot  help  but  lift 
Their  visions  to  the  skies, — 

They  watch  the  clouds — but  wait  the  rift 
Through  which  their  hope  shall  rise. 

The  victor  wields  the  sword, 

Its  blade  may  broken  be, 
By  a  thought  that  sleeps  in  a  deathless  word 

To  wake  in  the  Years — to  be. 

We  wait  a  grand-voiced  bard, 
Who  when  he  sings — will  send 

Immortal  songs'  "Imperial  Guard" 
The  Lost  cause  to  defend. 

He  has  not  come, — he  will, — 
But  when  he  chants — his  song 

WTill  stir  the  world  to  its  depths,  and  thrill 
The  earth  with  its  tale  of  wrong. 

The  fallen  cause  still  waits, — 

Its  bard  has  not  come  yet, 
His  song — through  one  of  to-morrow's  gates 

Shall  shine — but  never  set. 


SENTINEL  SONGS. 

But  when  he  comes — he'll  sweep 

A  harp  with  tears  all-stringed, 
And  the  very  notes  he  strikes  will  weep, 

As  they  come,  from  his  hand,  woe-winged. 

Ah  !  grand  shall  be  his  strain, 
And  his  songs  shall  fill  all  climes, 

And  the  Rebels  shall  rise  and  march  again 
Down  the  lines  of  his  glorious  rhymes. 

And  through  his  verse  shall  gleam 
The  swords  that  flashed  in  vain, 

And  the  men  who  wore  the  gray  shall  seem 
To  be  marshalling  again. 

<" 
But  hush  !  between  his  words 

Peer  faces  sad  and  pale, 
And  you  hear  the  sound  of  broken  chords 
Beat  through  the  poet's  wail. 

Through  his  verse  the  orphans  cry— 

The  terrible  undertone ! 
And  the  father's  curse  and  the  mother's  sigh, 

And  the  desolate  young  wife's  moan. 


But  harps  are  in  every  land 

That  await  a  voice  that  sings, 
And  a  maser-hand — but  the  humblest  hand 

May  gently  touch  its  strings. 

I  sing  with  a  voice  too  low 

To  be  heard  beyond  to-day, 
In  minor  keys  of  my  people's  woe 

But  my  songs  pass  away. 


ii2  SENTINEL  SONGS. 

To-morrow  hears  them  not — 

To-morrow  belongs  to  fame  • 
My  songs — like  the  birds' — will  be  forgot, 

And  forgotten  shall  be  my  name. 

And  yet  who  knows  !  betimes 

The  grandest  songs  depart, 
While  the  gentle,  humble  and  low-toned  rhymes 

Will  echo  from  heart  to  heart. 

But  oh  !  if  in  song  or  speech, 

In  major  or  minor  key, 
My  voice  could  over  the  ages  reach 

I  would  whisper  the  name  of  Lee. 

In  the  night  of  our  defeat 

Star  after  star  had  gone, 
But  the  way  was  bright  to  our  soldiers'  feet 

Where  the  star  of  Lee  led  on. 

But  sudden  :  there  came  a  cloud, 

Out  rung  a  nation's  knell — 
Our  cause  was  wrapped  in  its  winding  shroud, 

All  fell — when  the  great  Lee  fell. 

From  his  men — with  scarce  a  word, 

Silence  !  when  great  hearts  part  I— 
But  we  know  he  sheathed  his  stainless  sword 
In  the  wound  of  a  broken  heart. 

He  fled  from  Fame  ; — but  Fame 

Sought  him  in  his  retreat, 
Demanding  for  the  world  one  name 

Made  deathless  by  defeat. 


SENTINEL  SONGS.  113 

Nay  !  Fame  !  success  is  best ! 

All  lost  !  and  nothing  won — 
North  !  keep  the  clouds  that  flush  the  West  I 

We  have  the  sinking  sun. 

All  lost !  but  by  the  graves 

Where  martyred  heroes  rest 
He  wins  the  most,  who  honor  saves, 

Success  is  not  the  test. 

All  lost  ?  a  nation  weeps  ;— 

By  all  the  tears  that  fall, 
He  loses  naught  who  conscience  keeps, 

Lee's  honor  saves  us  all. 

AH  lost !  but  e'en  defeat 

Hath  triumphs  of  her  own, 
Wrong's  psean  hath  no  note  so  sweet 

As  trampled  Right's  proud  moan. 

The  world  shall  yet  decide, 

In  truth's  clear,  far  off  light, 
That  the  soldiers  who  wore  the  gray  and  died 

With  Lee— were  in  the  right 

And  men,  by  time  made  wise, 

Shall  in  the  future  see 
No  name  hath  risen,  or  ever  shall  rise, 

Like  the  name  of  Robert  Lee. 

Ah  me !  my  words  are  weak, 

This  task  surpasses  me  ; 
Dead  soldiers  !  rise  from  your  graves  and  speak 

And  tell  how  you  loved  Lee. 


ii4  SENTINEL  SONGS. 

The  banner  you  bore  is  furled, 
.  And  the  gray  is  faded,  too  ! 
But  in  all  the  colors  that  deck  the  world 
Your  gray  blends  not  with  blue. 

The  colors  are  far  apart, 

Graves  sever  them  in  twain ; 
The  Northern  heart  and  the  Southern  heart 

May  beat  in  peace  again. 

But  still  'till  Time's  last  day, 
Whatever  lips  may  plight, 

The  Blue  is  Blue,  but  Gray  is  Gray, 
Wrong  never  accords  with  Right. 

Go  !   Glory  !  and  forever  guard 
Our  chieftain's  hallowed  dust ; 

And  Honor  !  keep  eternal  ward  ; 
And  Fame  !  be  this  thy  trust. 

Go  !  with  your  bright  emblazoned  scroll 

And  tell  the  years  to  be — 
The  first  of  names  that  flash  your  roll 

Is  ours — great  Robert  Lee. 

Lee  wore  the  gray  !  since  then 
'Tis  Right's  and  Honor's  hue ! 

He  honored  it,  that  man  of  men, 
And  wrapped  it  round  the  True. 

Dead  !  but  his  spirit  breathes, 
Dead  !  but  his  heart  is  ours  ! 

Dead  !  but  his  sunny  and  sad  land  wreathes 
His  crown  with  tears  for  flowers. 


FRAGMENTS  FROM  AN  EPIC  POEM.      115 

A  Statue  for  his  Tomb  !— 

Mould  it  of  marble  white  ! 
For  Wrong,  a  spectre  of  Death  and  Doom ; 

An  angel  of  Hope  for  Right. 

But  Lee  has  a  thousand  graves 

In  a  thousand  hearts  I  ween  ; 
And  tear  drops  fall  from  our  eyes  in  waves 

That  will  keep  his  memory  green. 

Ah  !  Muse  !  you  dare  not  claim 

A  nobler  man  than  he, 
Nor  nobler  man  hath  less  of  blame, 
Nor  blameless  man  hath  purer  name, 
Nor  purer  name  hath  grander  fame,  , 

Nor  Fame, — another  Lee. 


FRAGMENTS  FROM  AN  EPIC  POEM. 

A    MYSTERY. 

face  was  sad  ; — some  shadow  must  have  hung 
w  Above  his  soul ; — its  folds,  now,  falling  dark, — 
Now,  almost  bright ;— but  dark  or  not  so  dark, 
Like  cloud  upon  a  mount, — 'twas  always  there — 
A  shadow  ; — and  his  face  was  always  sad. 

His  eyes  were  changeful,— for  the  gloom  of  gray 

Within  them  met  and  blended  with  the  blue, 

And  when  they  gazed  they  seemed  almost  to  dream  ; 

They  looked  beyond  you  into  far-away, 

And  often  drooped  ; — his  face  was  always  sad. 


n6     FRAGMENTS  FROM  AN  EPIC  POEM. 

His  eyes  were  deep  ; — I  often  saw  them  dim, 
As  if  the  edges  of  a  cloud  of  tears 
Had  gathered  there,  and  only  left  a  mist 
That  made  them  moist  and  kept  them  ever  moist. 
He  never  wept ; — his  face  was  always  sad. 

I  mean, — not  many  saw  him  ever  weep, 
And  yet  he  seemed  as  one  who  often  wept, 
Or  always,  tears  that  were  too  proud  to  flow 
In  outer  streams, — but  shrunk  within  and  froze, 
Froze  down  into  himself ;  his  face  was  sad. 

And  yet  sometimes  he  smiled, — a  sudden  smile, 
As  if  some  far-gone  joy  came  back  again, 
t       Surprised  his  heart,  and  flashed  across  his  face 
A  moment, — like  a  light  through  rifts  in  clouds— 
Which  falls  upon  an  unforgotten  grave  ; 
He  rarely  laughed  ; — his  face  was  ever  sad. 

And  when  he  spoke  his  words  were  sad  as  wails, 

And  strange  as  stories  of  an  unknown  land, 

And  full  of  meanings  as  the  sea  of  moans. 

At  times  he  was  so  still  that  silence  seemed 

To  sentinel  his  lips  ;  and  not  a  word 

Would  leave  his  heart; — his  face  was  strangely  sad. 

But  then  at  times  his  speech  flowed  like  a  stream— 
A  deep  and  dreamy  stream  through  lonely  dells 
Of  lofty  mountain-thoughts,  and  o'er  its  waves 
Hung  mysteries  of  gloom, — and  in  its  flow 
It  rippled  on  lone  shores  fair-fringed  with  flowers, 
And  deepened  as  it  flowed  ; — his  face  was  sad. 

He  had  his  moods  of  silence  and  of  speech. 
I  asked  him  once  the  reason — and  he  said : 


FRAGMENTS  FROM  AN  EPIC  POEM.      117 

"  When  I  speak  much — my  words  are  only  words, 
When  I  speak  least — my  words  are  more  than  words, 
When  I  speak  not — I  then  reveal  myself  "  ! 
It  was  his  way  of  saying  things,— he  spoke 
In  quaintest  riddles  ;  and  his  face  was  sad. 

And  when  he  wished,  he  wove  around  his  words 
A  nameless  spell  that  marvelously  thrilled 
The  dullest  ear.     'Twas  strange  that  he  so  cold 
Could  warm  the  coldest  heart ;  that  he  so  hard 
Could  soften  hardest  soul,— that  he  so  still 
Could  rouse  the  stillest  mind  ; — his  face  was  sad. 

He  spoke  of  death  as  if  it  were  a  toy 
For  thought  to  play  with  ;  and  of  life  he  spoke 
As  of  a  toy  not  worth  the  play  of  thought ; 
And  of  this  world  he  spake  as  captives  speak 
Of  prisons  where  they  pine  ;  he  spake  of  men 
As  one  who  found  pure  gold  in  each  of  them. 
He  spake  of  women — just  as  if  he  dreamed 
About  his  mother  ; — and  he  spoke  of  God 
As  if  he  walked  with  Him  and  knew  His  Heart- 
But  he  was  weary, — and  his  face  was  sad. 

He  had  a  weary  way  in  all  he  did, 

As  if  he  dragged  a  chain,  or  bore  a  cross  ; 

And  yet  the  weary  went  to  him  for  rest. 

His  heart  seemed  scarce  to  know  an  earthly  joy, 

And  yet  the  joyless  were  rejoiced  by  him. 

He  seemed  to  have  two  selves, — his  outer  self 

Was  free  to  any  passer  by,  and  kind  to  all, 

And  gentle  as  a  child's ;  that  outer  self 

Kept  open  all  its  gates  that  whoso  wished 

Might  enter  them  and  find  therein  a  place : 

And  many  entered  ;— but  his  face  was  sad. 


a 1 8     FRAGMENTS  FROM  AN  EPIC  POEM. 

The  inner  self  he  guarded  from  approach, 

He  kept  it  sealed  and  sacred  as  a  shrine  ; 

He  guarded  it  with  Silence  and  Reserve, 

Its  gates  were  locked  and  watched,  and  none  might  pass 

Beyond  the  portals  ; — and  his  face  was  sad. 

But  whoso  entered  there,  and  few  were  they, 

So  very  few — so  very — very  few, 

They  never  did  forget ; — they  said  :  "  How  strange  "  ! 

They  murmured    still,   "  How  strange  !  how  strangely 

strange  "  ! 

They  went  their  ways  but  wore  a  lifted  look, 
And  higher  meanings  came  to  common  words, 
And  lowly  thoughts  took  on  the  grandest  tones, — 
And  near  or  far — they  never  did  forget 
The  "Shadow  and  the  Shrine  "  ;^-his  face  was  sad. 

He  was  nor  young  nor  old, — yet  he  was  both;— 

Nor  both  by  turns,  but  always  both  at  once ; 

For  youth  and  age  commingled  in  his  ways, 

His  words,  his  feelings,  and  his  thoughts  and  acts. 

At  times  the  "old  man"  tottered  in  his  thoughts, — 

The  child  played  thro'  his  words ; — his  face  was  sad. 

I  one  day  asked  his  age ;  he  smiled  and  said  : 
''The  rose  that  sleeps  upon  yon  valley's  breast, 
Just  born  to-day,  is  not  as  young  as  I  ; 
The  moss-robed  oak  of  twice  a  thousand  storms,—- 
An  acorn  cradled  ages  long  ago, — 
Is  old,  in  sooth,  but  not  as  old  as  I." 
It  was  his  way, — he  always  answered  thus, — • 
But  when  he  did,  his  face  was  very  sad. 


FRAGMENTS  FROM  AN  EPIC  POEM.      119 

SPIRIT-SONG. 

Thou  wert  once  the  purest  wave 

Where  the  tempests  roar  ; — 
Thou  art  now  a  golden  wave 

On  the  golden  shore — 
Ever — ever — Evermore  ! 

Thou  wert,  once,  the  bluest  wave 

Shadows  e'er  hung  o'er  ; — 
Thou  art  now  the  brightest  wave 

On  the  brightest  shore — 
Ever — ever — Evermore  ! 

Thou  wert  once  the  gentlest  wave 

Ocean  ever  bore  ; 
Thou  art  now  the  fairest  wave 

On  the  fairest  shore, — 
Ever — ever — Evermore. 

Whiter  foam  than  thine  oh  !  wave  ! 

Wavelet  never  wore  ; — 
Stainless  wave  ;  and  now  you  lave 

The  far  and  stormless  shore, — 
Ever — ever — Evermore. 

Who  bade  thee  go  ?  oh  !  bluest  wave 

Beyond  the  tempest's  roar  ? 
Who  bade  thee  flow?  oh  !  fairest  wave  ! 

Unto  the  golden  shore  ? 
Ever — ever — Evermore  ! 

Who  waved  a  hand  ?  oh  !  purest  wave  ! 

A  hand  that  blessings  bore  ; — 
And  wafted  thee, — oh  !  whitest  wave  ! 

Unto  the  fairest  shore  ? 
Ever— ever — Evermore  ! 


120     FRAGMENTS  FROM  AN  EPIC  POEM. 

Who  winged  thy  way  ?  oh  !  holy  wave  1 

In  days  and  days  of  yore  ? 
And  wept  the  words  ?  "  Oh  !  winsome  wave  ! 

This  earth  is  not  thy  shore  ? " 
Ever — ever — Evermore  ! 

Who  gave  thee  strength  ?  oh  !  snowy  wave  f 
The  strength  a  great  soul  wore — 

And  said  :     "  Float  up  to  God  !  my  wave ! 
His  heart  shall  be  thy  shore  "  i 
Ever — ever— Evermore  ! 

Who  said  to  thee  ?  oh  !  poor,  weak  wave ! 

"  Thy  wail  shall  soon  be  o'er, 
Float  on  to  God, — and  leave  me,  wave, 
^Upon  this  rugged  shore  w  ! 
Ever — ever — Evermore  ! 

And  thou  hast  reached  His  feet," — glad  wave  f 
Dos't  dream  of  days  of  yore  ? 

Dos't  yearn  that  we  shall  meet, — pure  ware, 
Upon  the  golden  shore  ? 
Ever — ever — Evermore  ! 

Thou  sleepest  in  the  calm ; — calm  wave  ! 

» Beyond  the  wild  storm's  roar  ! 
I  watch  amid  the  storm  ; — bright  wave, 
Like  Rock  upon  the  shore  ; — • 
Ever — ever — Evermore ! 

Sing  at  the  feet  of  God,  white  wave  ! 

Song  sweet  as  one  of  yore  ; 
I  would  not  bring  thee  back,  Heart-wave, 

To  break  upon  this  shore, — 
Ever — ever — Evermore  ! 


FRAGMENTS  FROM  AN  EPIC  POEM.     121 

****** 
— "  No — no, — "  he  gently  spoke, — "you  know  me  not;— •» 
My  mind  is  like  a  Temple,  dim,  vast, — lone, — 
Just  like  a  Temple,  when  the  Priest  is  gone, — • 
And  all  the  hymns  that  rolled  along  the  vaults 
Are  buried  deep  in  Silence  ;  when  the  lights 
That  flashed  on  altars  died  away  in  Dark, 
And  when  the  flowers,  with  all  their  perfumed  breath 
And  beauteous  bloom,  lie  withered  on  the  shrine. 
My  mind  is  like  a  Temple,  solemn,  still, 
Untenanted  save  by  the  ghosts  of  gloom 
Which  seem  to  linger  in  the  Holy-place — •  ( 
The  shadows  of  the  sinners,  who  passed  there, 
And  wept  and  Spirit-shriven  left  upon 
The  marble  floor  memorials  of  their  tears." 

And  while  he  spake,  his  words  sank  low  and  low,—- 
Until  they  hid  themselves  in  some  still  depth 
He  would  not  open, — and  his  face  was  sad. 

When  he  spoke  thus,  his  very  gentleness 
Passed  slowly  from  him, — and  his  look  so  mild 
Grew  marble  cold  ; — a  pallor  as  of  death 
Whitened  his  lips, — and  clouds  rose  to  his  eyes, — 
Dry,  rainless  clouds,  where  lightnings  seemed  to  sleep. 
His  words,  as  tender  as  a  rose's  smile, 
Slow-hardened  into  thorns, — but  seemed  to  sting 
Himself  the  most ; — his  brow,  at  such  times,  bent 
Most  lowly  down, — and  wore'  such  look  of  pain 
As  though  it  bore  an  unseen  crown  of  thorns.— 
Who  knows,  perhaps,  it  did  ! 

But  he  would  pass 

His  hand  upon  his  brow, — or  touch  his  eyes, 
And  then  the  olden  gentleness,  like  light 


.**c      FRAGMENTS  FROM  AN  EPIC  POEM. 

Which  seems  transfigured  by  the  touch  of  Dark, 
Would  tremole  on  his  face, — and  he  would  look 
More  gentle  then  than  ever, — and  his  tone 
Would  sweeten,  like  the  winds,  when  storms  have  passed. 

I  saw  him,  one  day,  thus  most  deeply  moved 
And  darkened  ; — ah  !  his  face  was  like  a  tomb 
That  hid  the  dust  of  dead  and  buried  smiles,— 
But,  suddenly,  his  face  flashed  like  a  throne, 
And  all  the  smiles  arose  as  from  the  dead, 
And  wore  the  glory  of  an  Easter-morn  ;-— 
And  passed  beneath  the  sceptre  of  a  Hope 
Which  came  from  some  far-region  of  his  heart, — 
Came  up  into  his  eyes, — and  reigned  a  queen. 
I  marveled  much,— he  answered  to  my  look 
With  all  his  own,— and  wafted  me  these  words: 

"  There  are  transitions  in  the  lives  of  all. 
There  are  transcendant  moments  when  we  stand 
In  Thabor's  glory  with  the  Chosen  Three, 
And  weak  with  very  strength  of  human  love 
We  fain  would  build  our  Tabernacles  there  ;— 
And  Peter-like,  for  very  human  joy, 
We  cry  aloud — "tis  good  that  we  are  here': 
Swift  are  these  moments,  like  the  smile  of  God 
Which  glorifies  a  Shadow, — and  is  gone. 

And  then  we  stand  upon  another  mount, — 

Dark,  rugged  Calvary;— and  God  keeps  us  there 

For  awful  hours, — to  make  us  there  his  own 

In  Crucifixion's  tortures, — 'tis  his  way. 

We  wish  to  cling  to  Thabor ;— He  says  :  "  No." 

And  what  he  says  is  best  because  most  true. 

We  fain  would  fly  from  Calvary; — He  says  :  "No." 


FRAGMENTS  FROM  AN  EPIC  POEM.      123 

And  it  is  true  because  it  is  the  best. 

And  yet,  my  friend,  these  two  mounts  are  the  same. 

They  lie  apart,  distinct  and  separate, — 

And  yet— strange  mystery  ! — they  are  the  same. 

For  Calvary  is  a  Thabor  in  the  Dark, 

And  Thabor  is  a  Calvary  in  the  Light. 

It  is  the  Mystery  of  Holy  Christ ! 

It  is  the  mystery  of  you  and  me  ! 

Earth's  shadows  move,  as  moves  far-Heaven's  sun, 

And  like  the  shadows  of  a  Dial,  we 

Tell,  darkly,  in  the  Vale  the  very  hours 

The  sun  tells,  brightly,  in  the  sinless  skies. 

Dost  understand  ?"     I  did  not  understand, — 

Or  only  half  ; — his  face  was  very  sad. 

"Dost  thou  not  understand  me?     Then  your  life 

Is  shallow  as  a  brook  that  brawls  along 

Between  two  narrow  shores  ; — you  never  wept,— 

You  never  wore  great  clouds  upon  your  brow 

As  mountains  wear  them  ; — and  you  never  wore 

Strange  glories  in  your  eyes,  as  sunset-skies- 

Oft  wear  them, — and  your  lips, — they  never  sighed 

Grand  sighs  which  bear  the  weight  of  all  the  soul ; 

You  never  reached  your  arms  a-broad, — a-high 

To  grasp  far-worlds — or  to  enclasp  the  sky. 

Life,  only  life  can  understand  a  life  ; — 

Depth, — only  depth  can  understand  the  deep. 

The  dewdrop  glist'ning  on  the  lily's  face 

Can  never  learn  the  story  of  the  sea. 


One  day  we  strolled  together  to  the  sea. 
Gray-Evening  and  the  Night  had  almost  met,— 
We  walked  between  them, — silent,  to  the  shore. 


i24     FRAGMENTS  FROM  AN  EPIC  POEM. 

The  feet  of  weird-faced  waves  ran  up  the  beach 

Like  children  in  mad  play, — then  back  again,— 

As  if  the  Spirit  of  the  land  pursued, — 

Then  up  again, — and  farther — and  they  flung 

White,  foamy  arms  around  each  other's  neck,— 

Then  back  again  with  sudden  rush  and  shout, 

As  if  the  sea,  their  mother,  called  them  home  ; — 

Then  leaned  upon  her  breast,  as  if  so  tired, 

But  swiftly  tore  themselves  away  and  rushed 

Away, — and  further  up  the  beach  and  fell 

For  utter  weariness  ; — and  loudly  sobbed 

For  strength  to  rise  and  flow  back  to  the  Deep.— 

But  all  in  vain, — for  other  waves  swept  on 

And  trampled  them  ; — the  sea  cried  out  in  grief,— 

The  gray  beach  laughed,  and  clasped  them  to  the  sands, 

It  was  the  Flood-tide  and  the  Even-tide — 

Between  the  Evening  and  the  Night  we  walked,— 

We  walked  between  the  billows  and  the  beach, — 

We  walked  between  the  Future  and  the  Past, — 

Down  to  the  sea,  we,  twain,  had  strolled, — to  part. 

The  shore  was  low,  with  just  the  faintest  rise 

Of  many-colored  sands  and  shreds  of  shells, 

Until  about  a  stone's  far  throw  they  met, 

A  fringe  of  faded  grass,  with  here  and  there 

A  pale-green  shrub  ;  and  farther  into  land — 

Another  stone's  throw  farther,  there  were  trees, 

Tall,  dark,  wild  trees,  with  intertwining  arms, 

Each  almost  touching  each,  as  if  they  feared 

To  stand  alone  and  look  upon  the  sea. 

The  Night  was  in  the  trees — the  Evening,  on  the  shore. 

We  walked  between  the  Evening  and  the  Night, — • 

Between  the  trees  and  tide  we  silent  strolled. 


FRAGMENTS  FROM  AN  EPIC  POEM,      125 

There  lies  between  man's  Silence  and  his  Speech 
A  shadowy  valley  where  thro'  those,  who  pass 
Are  never  silent  tho'  they  may  not  speak, — 
And  yet  they  more  than  breathe  ; — it  is  the  Vale 
Of  wordless  sighs,  half-uttered  and  half-heard, — 
It  is  the  vale  of  the  Unutterable. 
We  walked  between  our  Silence  and  our  Speech, 
And  sighed  between  the  sunset  and  the  stars, 
One  hour  beside  the  sea. 

There  was  a  cloud 

Far  o'er  the  reach  of  waters  hanging  low 
'Tween  sea  and  sky, — the  banner  of  the  storm. 
Its  edges  faintly  bright,  as  if  the  rays, 
That  fled  far  down  the  West,  had  rested  there 
And  slumbered, — and  had  left  a  dream  of  light. 
Its  inner  fold's  were  dark,  — its  central,  more. 
It  did  not  flutter, — there  it  hung  as  calm 
As  banner  in  a  temple  o'er  a  shrine. 
Its  shadow  only  fell  upon  the  sea, 
Above  the  shore  the  heavens  bended  blue. 
We  walked  between  the  Cloudless  and  the  Cloud, 
That  hour,  beside  the  sea. 

But,  quick  as  thought, 

There  gleamed  a  sword  of  wild,  terrific  light, 
Its  hilt  in  heaven, — its  point  hissed  in  the  sea,— 
Its  scabbard  in  the  darkness, — and  it  tore 
The  bannered  cloud  into  a  thousand  shreds, 
Then  quivered  far  away, — and  bent  and  broke 
In  flashing  fragments  ; — 

And  there  came  a  peal 

That  shook  the  mighty  sea  from  shore  to  shore, 
But  did  not  stir  a  sand-grain  on  the  beach ; 


:i26     FRAGMENTS  FROM  AN  EPIC  POEM. 

Then  silence  fell, — and  where  the  low  cloud  hung, 
Clouds  darker  gathered — and  they  proudly  waved 
Like  flags  before  a  battle. — 

We,  twain,  walked, — 

We  walked  between  the  lightning's  parted  gleams, 
We  walked  between  the  thunders  of  the  skies, 
We  walked  between  the  wavings  of  the  clouds, 
We  walked  between  the  tremblings  of  the  sea, 
We  walked  between  the  stillnesses  and  roars 
Of  frightened  billows  ; — and  we  walked  between 
The  coming  tempest  and  the  dying  calm, 
Between  the  Tranquil  and  the  Terrible, 
That  hour,  beside  the  sea. 

There  was  a  Rock, 

Far  up  the  winding  beach,  that  jutted  in 
The  sea, — and  broke  the  heart  of  every  wave 
That  struck  its  breast ; — not  steep  enough  nor  high 
To  be  a  cliff, — nor  yet  sufficient  rough 
To  be  a  crag  ;  a  simple,  low,  lone  Rock  ;— 
Yet  not  so  low  as  that  its  brow  was  laved 
By  highest  tide, — yet  not  sufficient  high 
To  rise  beyond  the  reach  of  silver-spray 
That  rained  up  from  the  waves, — their  tears  that  fell 
Upon  its  face,  when  they  died  at  his  feet. 
Around  its  sides  damp  sea-weed  hung  in  long, 
Sad  tresses,  dripping  down  into  the  sea. 
A  tuft  or  two  of  grass  did  green  the  Rock, 
A  patch  or  so  of  moss  ; — the  rest  was  bare. 

Adown  the  shore  we  walked  'tween  Eve  and  Night ; 
But  when  we  reached  the  Rock,  the  Eve  and  Night 
Had  met  ; — light  died  ;  we  sat  down  in  the  Dark 
Upon  the  Rock. 


FRAGMENTS  FROM  AN  EPIC  POEM.      127; 

Meantime  a  thousand  clouds 
Careered  and  clashed  in  air, — a  thousand  waves 
Whirled  wildly  cgi  in  wrath, — a  thousand  winds 
Howled  hoarsely  on  the  main  ; — and  down  the  skies- 
Into  the  hollow  seas  the  fierce  rain  rushed, 
As  if  its  ev'ry  drop  were  hot  with  wrath ; 
And  like  a  thousand  serpents  intercoiled 
The  lightnings  glared  and  hissed  and  hissed  and  glared, 
And  all  the  horror  shrank  in  horror  back 
Before  the  maddest  peals  that  ever  leaped 
Out  from  the  thunder's  throat. 

Within  the  dark 

We  silent  sat.     No  rain  fell  on  the  Rock, 
Nor  in  on  land,  nor  shore  ; — only  on  sea 
The  upper  and  the  lower  waters  met 
In  wild  delirium, — like  a  thousand  hearts 
Far-parted, — parted-long,  which  meet  to  break,. 
Which  rush  into  each  other's  arms  and  break 
In  terror  and  in  tempests  wild  of  tears. 
No  rain  fell  on  the  rock ; — but  flakes  of  foam 
Swept  cold  against  our  faces, -where  we  sat 
Between  the  hush  and  howling  of  the  winds, 
Between  the  swells  and  sinkings  of  the  waves, 
Between  the  stormy  sea  and  stilly  shore, 
Between  the  rushings  of  the  maddened  rains, 
Between  the  Dark  beneath  and  Dark  above, 

We  sat  within  the  dread  Heart  of  the  Night — 
One,  pale  with  terror  ; — One,  as  calm  and  still 
And  stern  and  moveless  as  the  lone,  low  Rock. 
*  *  *  *  *  ft. 


LAKE  COMO. 

INTER  on  the  mountains — 

•Summer  on  the  shore — 

The  robes  of  sun-gleams  woven, 

The  lake's  blue  wavelets  roar. 

Cold,  white,  against  the  Heavens, 
Flashed  winter's  crown  of  snow, 

And  the  blossoms  of  the  spring-tide 
Waved  brightly  far  below. 

The  mountain's  head  was  dreary, 
The  cold  and  cloud  were  there, 

But  the  mountain's  feet  were  sandaled, 
With  flowers  of  beauty  rare. 

And  winding  thro'  the  mountains, 
The  lake's  calm  wavelets  rolled  ; 

And  a  cloudless  sun  was  gilding, 
Their  ripples  with  its  gold. 

Adown  the  lake  we  glided, 

Thro'  all  the  sunlit  day ; 
The  cold  snows  gleamed  above  us, 

But  fair  flowers  fringed  our  way. 

The  snows  crept  down  the  mountain, 
The  flowers  crept  up  the  slope, 

Till  they  seemed  to  meet  and  mingle, 
Like  a  human,  fear  and  hope. 


LAKE  COMO.  129 

But  the  same  rich  golden  sunlight, 

Fell  on  the  flowers  and  snow; 
Like  the  smile  of  God  that  flashes, 

On  hearts  in  joy  or  woe. 

And  on  the  lake's  low  margin, 

The  trees  wore  stoles  of  green ; 
While  here  and  there,  amid  them, 

A  convent  cross  was  seen. 

Anon  a  ruined  castle, 

Moss-mantled,  loomed  in  view, 
And  cast  its  solemn  shadow, 

Across  the  water's  blue. 

And  chapel,  cot  and  villa, 

Met  here  and  there  our  gaze  ; 
And  many  a  crumbling  tower, 

That  told  of  other  days. 

And  scattered  o'er  the  waters, 

The  fishing  boats  lay  still ; 
And  sound  of  song,  so  softly, 

Came  echoed  from  the  hill 

At  times  the  mountains  shadow, 

Fell  dark  across  the  scene  ; 
And  veiled  with  veil  of  purple, 

The  wavelets'  silver  sheen. 

But  for  a  moment  only, 

The  lake  would  wind, — and  lo  ! 
The  waves  would  near  the  glory, 

Of  the  sunlight's  brightest  glow. 


1 3o  LAKE  CO  MO. 

At  times,  there  fell  a  silence, 

Unbroken  by  a  tone  ; 
As  if  no  sound  of  voices, 

Had  ever  there  been  known. 

Through  strange  and  lonely  places, 
We  glided  thus  for  hours  ; 

We  saw  no  other  faces 

But  the  faces  of  the  flowers. 

The  shores  were  sad  and  lonely, 
As  hearts  without  a  love  ; 

While  darker  and  more  dreary, 
The  mountains  rose  above. 

But  sudden  round  a  headland, 
The  lake  would  sweep  again  ; 

And  voices  from  a  village, 

Would  meet  us  with  their  strain. 

Thus  all  the  day  we  glided, 
Until  the  Vesper  bell, 

Gave  to  the  day,  at  sunset, 
Its  sweet  and  soft  farewell. 

Then  back  again  we  glided, 
Upon  our  homeward  way; 

When  twilight  wrapped  the  waters 
And  the  mountains  with  its  gray. 

But,  brief  the  reign  of  twilight, 
The  night  came  quickly  on  ; 

The  dark  brow  o'er  the  mountains, 
Star  wreathed  brightly  shone. 


LAKE  COMO.  131 

And  down  thro'  all  the  shadows, 

The  star-gleams  softly  crept, 
And  kissed  with  lips  all-shining, 

The  wavelets  ere  they  slept. 

The  lake  lay  in  a  slumber, 

The  shadows  for  its  screen ; 
While  silence  waved  her  sceptre, 

Above  the  sleeping  scene. 

The  spirit  of  the  darkness, 

Moved  ghost-like  everywhere ; 
Wherever  starlight  glimmered, 

Its  shadow,  sure,  fell  there. 

The  lone  place  grew  more  lonely, 

And  all  along  our  way, 
The  mysteries  of  the  night-time, 

Held  undisputed  sway. 

Thro'  silence  and  thro'  darkness 

We  glided  down  the  tide — 
That  wound  around  the  mountains 

That  rose  on  either  side. 

No  eyes  would  close  in  slumber 

Within  our  little  bark— 
What  charmed  us  so  in  daylight 

So  awed  us  in  the  dark. 

Upon  the  deck  we  lingered 

A  whisper  scarce  was  heard ; 
When  hearts  are  stirred  profoundest 

Lips  are  without  a  word. 


1 32  LAKE  CO  MO. 

"Let's  say  the  Chaplet,"  softly 
A  voice  beside  me  spake. 

"Christ  walked  once  in  the  darkness 
Across  an  Eastern  lake." 

"And  to-night  we  know  the  secret 

That  will  charm  him  to  our  side ; 
If  we  call  upon  His  Mothei  — 
He  will  meet  us  on  the  tide,': 

So  we  said  the  Beads  together 
Up  and  down  the  little  bark, 

And  I  believe  that  Jesus  met  us 
With  His  Mother  in  the  dark. 

And  our  prayers  were  scarcely  ended 
When  on  mountain  top  afar, 

We  beheld  the  morning  meeting 
With  the  night's  last  fading  star. 

And  I  left  the  lake — but  never 
Shall  the  years  to  come  efface 

From  my  heart  the  dream  and  vision 
Of  that  strange  and  lonely  place. 

Feb.  ist,  1873. 


"PEACE!  BE  STILL." 

OMETIMES  the  Saviour  sleeps,— and  it  is  dark,— 

For  oh  !  His  eyes  are  this  world's  only  light  ;— 
And  when  they  close  wild  waves  rush  on  His  Bark 
And  toss  it  through  the  dread  hours  of  the  Night. 

So  He  slept  once  upon  an  Eastern  lake, 

In  Peter's  bark,  while  wild  waves  raved  at  will ; 

A  cry  smote  on  him, — and  when  he  did  wake 
He  softly  whispered,— and  the  sea  grew  still. 

It  is  a  mystery,— but  He  seems  to  sleep 

As  erst  he  slept  in  Peter's  wave-rocked  bark ; 

A  storm  is  sweeping  all  across  the  deep, 
While  Pius  prays,  like  Peter,  in  the  'Dark. 

The  sky  is  darkened,— and  the  shore  is  far, 

The  tempest's  strength  grows  fiercer  every  hour  ; 

Upon  the  howling  deep  there  shines  no  star- 
Why  sleeps  he  still  ?     Why  does  he  hide  his  power  ? 

Fear  not — a  holy  hand  is  on  the  helm 

That  guides  the  bark  thro'  all  the  tempest's  wrath  ; 
Quail  not, — the  wildest  waves  can  never  whelm 

The  ship  of  Faith  upon  its  homeward  path. 

The  Master  sleeps,— His  Pilot  guards  the  Bark, 
He  soon  will  wake  ;  and  at  his  mighty  will 

The  Light  will  shine  where  all  before  was  dark,— 

The  wild  waves  still  remember  :   "  Peace  !  be  still." 
Rome,  1873. 


GOOD  FRIDAY. 

[H  !  Heart !  of  Three-in-the  Evening! 

You  nestled  the  thorn-crowned  Head/ 
leaned  on  you  in  His  sorrow, 
And  rested  on  you  when  dead. 


Ah  !  Holy  Three-in-the  Evening  ! 

He  gave  you  His  richest  dower — 
He  met  you  afar  on  Calvary, 
•  And  made  you  "  His  own  last  Hour." 

Oh  !  Brow  of  Three-in-the  Evening, 
Thou  wearest  a  crimson  crown  ; 

Thou  art  Priest  of  the  Hours  forever, 
And  thy  voice  as  thou  goest  down 

The  cycles  of  Time,  still  murmurs 

The  story  of  love,  each  day ; 
"  I  held,  in  death,  the  Eternal 
In  the  long  and  the  far-away. 

Oh  !  Heart  of  Three-in-the  Evening  ! 

Mine  beats  with  thine  to-day  ; 
Thou  tellest  the  olden  story, 

I  kneel — and  I  weep  and  pray. 

Boulogne,  sur  mer. 


SUNLESS  DAYS. 

HEY  come  to  ev'ry  life, — sad,  sunless  days, 

With  not  a  light  all  o'er  their  clouded  skies — 
And  thro'  the  Dark  we  grope  along  our  ways, 

With  hearts  fear-filled,  and  lips  low-breathing  sighs. 
I 

What  is  the  Dark  ?— Why  cometh  it  ?  and  whence  ? 

Why  does  it  banish  all  the  Bright  away  ? 
How  does  it  weave  a  spell  o'er  soul  and  sense  ? 

Why  falls  the  Shadow  where'er  gleams  the  Ray? 

Has't  felt  it  ?     I  have  felt  it,  and  I  know, — 
.  How  oft  and  suddenly  the  shadows  roll 
From  out  the  depths  of  some  dim  realm  of  woe, — 
To  wrap  their  darkness  round  the  human  soul. 

Those  days  are  darker  than  the  very  night ; 

For  nights  have  stars,  and  sleep  and  happy  dreams, 
But  these  days  bring  unto  the  spirit-sight 

The  mysteries  of  gloom, — until  it  seems 

The  light  is  gone  forever,  and  the  Dark 
Hangs  like  a  pall  of  death  above  the  soul 

Which  rocks  amid  the  gloom  like  storm- swept  bark 
And  sinks  beneath  a  sea  where  tempests  roll. 

Winter  on  the  Atlantic. 


A  REVERIE. 

ID  I  dream  of  a  song?  or  sing  in  a  dream ? 

Why  ask  when  the  night  only  knoweth  ? 

night, — and  the  Angel  of  Sleep  ! 
But  ever  since  then,  a  music  deep, 
Like  a  stream  thro'  a  shadow-land  floweth 
Under  each  thought  of  my  spirit  that  groweth 
Into  the  blossom  and  bloom  of  speech, — 
Under  each  fancy  that  cometh  and  goeth 
Wayward,  as  waves  when  Evening-breeze  bloweth 
Out  of  the  sunset  and  into  the  beach. 
And  is  it  a  wonder  I  wept  to-day? 
For  I  mused  and  thought, — but  I  cannot  say 
If  I  dreamed  of  a  song, — or  sang  in  a  dream. 
In  the  silence  of  sleep, — and  the  noon  of  night ; 
And  now — even  now — 'neath  the  words  I  write, 
The  flush  of  the  dream,  or  the  flow  of  the  song — • 
I  cannot  tell  which  — moves  strangely  along. 
But  why  write  more?     I  am  puzzled  sore  : 
Did  I  dream  of  a  song  ?  or  sing  in  a  dream  ? 
Ah  !  hush  !  heart !  hush  ! — 'tis  of  no  avail, 
The  words  of  earth  are  a  darksome  veil, 
The  poet  weaves  it  with  artful  grace  ; 
Lifts  it  off  from  his  thoughts  at  times, 
Lets  it  rustle  along  his  rhymes, — 
But  gathers  it  close,  covering  the  face 
Of  ev'ry  thought  that  must  not  part 
From  out  the  keeping  of  his  heart. 


MY  BEADS. 

r'WEET,  Blessed  Beads!  I  would  not  part 
With  one  of  you,  for  richest  gem 
That  gleams  in  kingly  diadem  ;— 
Ye  know  the  history  of  my  heart. 

For  I  have  told  you  every  grief 

In  all  the  days  of  twenty  years, 
And  I  have  moistened  you  with  tears, 

And  in  your  decades  found  relief. 

Ah  !  time  has  fled,  and  friends  have  failed, 
And  joys  have  died  ;— but  in  my  needs, 
Ye  were  my  friends  !  my  Blessed  Beads  ! 

And  ye  consoled  me  when  I  wailed. 

For  many  and  many  a  time  in  grief, 
My  weary  fingers  wandered  round 
Thy  circled-  hain,  and  always  found 

In  some  Hail-Mary  sweet  relief. 

How  many  a  story  you  might  tell 
Of  inner-life  to  all  unknown, — 
I  trusted  you  and  you  alone,—- 

But  ah  !  ye  keep  my  secrets  well. 

Ye  are  the  only  chain  I  wear, 

A  sign  that  I  am  but  the  slave, 
In  life,  in  death,  beyond  the  grave, 

Of  Jesus  and  His  Mother  fair. 


AT   NIGHT. 

f 

jf'REARY!  weary! 
0  Weary  J  dreary  ! 

Sighs  my  soul  this  lonely  night. 

Farewell  gladness  ! 

Welcome  sadness  ! 
Vanished  are  my  visions  bright ! 

Stars  are  shining ! 

Winds  are  pining ! 
In  the  sky  and  o'er  the  sea ; 

Shine  forever 

Stars  ;  but  never 
Can  the  starlight  gladden  me. 

Stars  !  you  nightly 

Sparkle  brightly, 
Scattered  o'er  your  azure  dome  , 

While  earth's  turning, 

There  you're  burning — 
Beacons  of  a  better  home. 

Stars !  you  brighten 

And  you  lighten 
Many  a  heart-grief  here  below  5 

But  your  gleaming, 

And  your  beaming, 
•Cannot  chase  away  my  woe. 


AT  NIGHT.  139 

Stars  !  you're  shining — • 

I  am  pining — 
I  am  dark,  but  you  are  bright ; 

Hanging  o'er  me 

And  before  me 
Is  a  night  you  cannot  light. 

Night  of  sorrow, 

Whose  to-morrow 
I  may  never,  never  see, 

Till  upon  me 

And  around  me 
Dawns  a  bright  eternity. 

Winds  !  you're  sighing, 

And  you're  crying, 
Like  a  mourner  o'er  a  tomb  : 

Whither  go  ye  ? 

Whither  blow  ye?. 
Wailing  through  the  midnight  gloom, 

Chanting  lowly, 

Softly,  lowly, 
Like  the  voice  of  one  in  woe  : 

Winds  so  lonely, 

Why  thus  moan  ye  ? 
Say,  what  makes  you  sorrow  so? 

Are  you  grieving 

For  your  leaving 
Scenes  where  all  is  fair  and  gay  ? 

For  the  flowers 

In  their  bowers 
You  have  met  with  on  your  way? 


140  NOCTURNE. 

For  fond  faces, 

For  dear  places, 
That  you've  seen  as  on  you  swept. 

Are  you  sighing? 

Are  you  crying  ? 
O'er  the  memories  they  have  left  ? 

Earth  is  sleeping 
While  you're  sweeping 

Through  night  solemn  silence  by  ! 
On  forever, 
Pausing  never — 

How  I  love  to  hear  you  sigh ! 

Men  are  dreaming, 
Stars  are  gleaming, 

In  the  far-off  heaven's  blue  ; 
Bosom  aching, 
Musing,  waking,  ^ 

Midnight  winds  !  I  sigh  with  you  ! 


NOCTURNE. 

ETIMES,  I  seem  to  see  in  dreams 
What  when  awake  I  may  not  see  ; 

Can  Night  be  God's  more  than  the  Day? 
Do  stars,  not  suns*  best  light  His  way  ? 
Who  knoweth  ?     Blended  lights  and  shades 
Arch  aisles  down  which  He  walks  to  me. 


NOCTURNE  141 

I  hear  Him  coming  in  the  Night 
Afar,  and  yet  I  know  not  how, 

His  steps  make  music  low  and  sweet — 
Sometimes  the  Nails  are  in  His  feet ; 
Does  Darkness  give  God  better  light 
Than  Day — to  find  a  weary  brow  ? 

Does  Darkness  give  man  brighter  rays 
To  find  the  God,  in  Sunshine  lost  ? 
Must  shadows  wrap  the  Trysting-place 
Where  God  meets  hearts  with  gentlest  grace  ? 
Who  knoweth  it?     God  hath  his  ways' 
For  every  soul  here  sorrow-tossed. 

The  Hours  of  Day  are  like  the  waves 
That  fret  against  the  shores  of  sin, 
They  touch  the  Human  everywhere, 
The  Bright-Divine  fades  in  their  glare  ; 

And  God's  sweet  voice  the  spirit  craves 
Is  heard  too  faintly  in  the  din. 

When  all  the  senses  are  awake, 
The  Mortal  presses  overmuch 
Upon  the  great  Immortal  part— 
And  God  seems  further  from  the  Heart. 
Must  souls,  like  skies,  when  day-dawns  break, 
Lose  star  by  star  at  sunlight's  touch  ? 

But  when  the  sun  kneels  in  the  west, 
And  grandly  sinks  as  great  Hearts  sink ; 
And  in  his  sinking,  flings  adown 
Bright  blessings  from  his  fading  crown, 
The  stars  begin  their  Song  of  Rest, 

And  shadows  make  the  thoughtless  think. 


142  NOCTURNE. 

The  Human  seems  to  fade  away — 

And  down  the  starred  and  shadowed  skies 
The  Heavenly  comes — as  memories  come 
Of  Home  ;  to  hearts  afar  from  Home  ; 
And  thro'  the  Darkness  after  Day 
Many  a  winged  angel  flies. 

And,  somehow,  tho'  the  eyes  see  less, 
Our  spirits  seem  to  see  the  more — 

When  we  look  thro'  Night's  shadow-bars 
The  soul  sees  more  than  shining  stars, 
Yea — sees  the  very  loveliness 

That  rests  upon  the  "  Golden  Shore." 

Strange  Reveries  steal  o'er  us  then 
Like  keyless  chords  of  instruments, 
With  music's  soul  without  the  notes  ; 
And  subtle,  sad,  and  sweet  there  floats 
A  melody  not  made  by  men — 
Nor  ever  heard  by  outer  sense. 

And  "  what  has  been,"  and  "  what  will  be," 
And  "  what  is  not,  but  might  have  been," — - 
The  dim  "  to  be  "—the  "  mournful  gone," 
The  little  things  life  rested  on 
In  "  Long-ago's,"  give  tone,  not  key 
To  reveries  beyond  our  ken. 


ST.  MARY'S. 

ACK  to  where  the  roses  rest 
'Round  a  shrine  of  holy  name — 
f^  (Yes — they  knew  me  when  I  came)— 
More  of  peace  and  less  of  fame 
Suit  my  restless  heart  the  best. 

Back  to  where  long  quiets  brood, 
Where  the  calm  is  never  stirred 
By  the  harshness  of  a  word — 
But  instead  the  singing  bird 

Sweetens  all  my  solitude. 

With  the  birds  and  with  the  flowers 
Songs  and  silences  unite, — 
From  the  morning  unto  night, 
And  somehow  a  clearer  light 

Shines  along  the  quiet  hours. 

God  comes  closer  to  me  here, — 
Back  of  ev'ry  rose  leaf  there 
He  is  hiding, — and  the  air 
Thrills  with  calls  to  holy  prayer ; 

Earth  grows  far, — and  heaven  near. 

Every  single  flower  is  fraught 
With  the  very  sweetest  dreams, 
Under  clouds  or  under  gleams 
Changeful  ever, — yet  meseems 

On  each  leaf  I  read  God's  thought 


ST.  MAXY'S. 

Still,  at  times,  as  place  of  death, — - 
Not  a  sound  to  vex  the  ear, 
Yet  withal  it  is  not  drear, — 
Better  for  the  heart  to  hear 

Far  from  men — God's  gentle  breath. 

Where  men  clash,  God  always  clings,- 
When  the  human  passes  by, 
Like  a  cloud  from  summer  sky 
God  so  gently  draweth  nigh, 

And  the  brightest  blessings  brings. 

List !  e'en  now  a  wild  bird  sings 
And  the  roses  seem  to  hear, 
Every  note  that  thrills  my  ear 
Rising  to  the  heavens  clear 

And  my  soul  soars  on  its  wings. 

Up  into  the  silent  skies 
Where  the  sunbeams  veil  the  star, 
Up — beyond  the  clouds  afar, 
Where  no  discords  ever  mar, 

Where  rests  peace  that  never  dies. 

So  I  live  within  the  calm, 
And  the  birds  and  roses  know 
That  the  days  that  come  and  go 
Are  as  peaceful  as  the  flow 

Or  a  prayer  beneath  a  psalm. 


DE  PROFUNDIS. 

H  !  Days  so  dark  with  Death's  eclipse ! 

Woe  are  we  !  woe  are  we  ! 
And  the  Nights  are  Ages  long, — 
From  breaking  hearts,  thro'  pallid  lips 

Oh,  my  God  !  woe  are  we  ! 
Trembleth  the  mourners'  song, — 
A  blight  is  falling  on  the  fair 
And  Hope  is  dying  in  despair,— 
And  Terror  walketh  everywhere. 

All  the  hours  are  full  of  tears,— 
Oh.  my  God  !  woe  are  we  ! 
Grief  keeps  watch  in  brightest  eyes— 
Every  heart  is  strung  with  fears, 

Woe  are  we  !  woe  are  we ! 
All  the  light  hath  left  the  skies, 
And  the  living  awe-struck  crowds 
See  above  them  only  clouds 
And  around  them  only  shrouds. 

Ah  !  the  terrible  Farewells  ! 

Woe  are  they  !  woe  are  they ! 
When  last  words  sink  into  moans, 
While  life's  trembling  vesper  bells 

Oh,  my  God  !  woe  are  we  1 
Ring  the  awful  undertones ! 
Not  a  sun  in  any  day  ! 
In  the  night-time  not  a  ray, — 
And  the  dying  pass  away ! 


146  DE  PROFUNDIS. 

Dark !  so  dark  !  above — below, — • 

Oh,  my  God  !  woe  are  we ! 
Cowereth  every  human  life. — 
Wild  the  wailing; — to  and  fro — 

Woe  are  all !  woe  are  we ! 
Death  is  victor  in  the  strife: — 
In  the  hut  and  in  the  hall 
He  is  writing  on  the  wall 
Dooms  for  many — fears  for  all. 

Thro'  the  cities  burns  a  breath, 
Woe  are  they  !  woe  are  we ! 
Hot  with  dread  and  deadly  wrath  ; 
Life  and  Love  lock  arms  in  death, 

Woe  are  they  !  woe  are  all ! 
Victims  strew  the  Spectre's  path  ; 
Shy-eyed  children  softly  creep 
Where  their  mothers  wail  and  weep- 
In  the  grave  their  fathers  sleep. 

Mothers  waft  their  prayers  on  high, — 

Oh,  my  God  !  woe  are  we  ! 
With  their  dead  child  on  their  breast. 
And  the  Altars  ask  the  sky, — 

Oh,  my  Christ !  woe  are  we ! 
"Give  the  dead,  oh,  Father  !  rest! 
Spare  thy  people  !  mercy  !  spare  !" 
Answer  will  not  come  to  prayer — 
Horror  moveth  everywhere. 

And  the  Temples  miss  the  Priest— 

Oh,  my  God  !  woe  are  we  ! 
And  the  cradle  mourns  the  child. 

Husband !  at  your  bridal  feast 
Woe  are  you  !  woe  are  you ! 


DE  PROFUNDIS.  147 

Think  how  those  poor  dead  eyes  smiled ; 
They  will  never  smile  again— 
Every  tie  is  cut  in  twain, 
All  the  strength  of  love  is  vain. 

Weep  ?  but  tears  are  weak  as  foam- 
Woe  are  ye !  woe  are  we  ! 
They  but  break  upon  the  shore 
Winding  between  Here  and  Home — 

Woe  are  ye  !  woe  are  we  ! 
Wailing  never — nevermore  ! 
Ah,  the  dead !  they  are  so  lone, 
Just  a  grave,  and  just  a  stone, 
And  the  memory  of  a  moan. 

Pray  ?  yes,  pray,  for  God  is  sweet — 

Oh,  my  God  !  woe  are  we  ! 
Tears  will  trickle  into  prayers 
When  we  kneel  down  at  His  feet — 

Woe  are  we  !  woe  are  we  ! 
With  our  crosses  and  our  cares. 
He  will  calm  the  totured  breast, 
He  will  give  the  troubled  rest — 
And  the  dead  He  watcheth  best. 


WHEN? 

OME  day  in  Spring 

When  earth  is  fair  and  glad 
And  sweet  birds  sing 

And  fewest  hearts  are  sad— 
Shall  I  die  then  ? 
Ah  !  me  !  no  matter  when, 
I  know  it  will  be  sweet 

To  leave  the  homes  of  men 
And  rest  beneath  the  sod, 
To  kneel  and  kiss  Thy  feet 
In  Thy  Home  !    Oh  !  my  God. 

Some  Summer  morn 

Of  splendors  and  of  songs, 
When  roses  hide  the  thorn 

And  smile, — the  spirit's  wrongs— 
Shall  I  die  then  ? 
Ah  !  me  !  no  matter  when, 
I  know  I  will  rejoice 

To  leave  the  haunts  of  men 
And  lie  beneath  the  sod, 
To  hear  Thy  tender  voice 

In  Thy  Home  !  Oh  !  my  God. 


WHEN?  149 

Some  Autumn  eve 

When  chill-  clouds  drape  the  sky/ 
When  bright  things  grieve 
Because  all  fair  things  die, — 
Shall  I  die  then? 
Ah  !  me  !  no  matter  when, 
I  know  I  shall  be  glad 

Away  from  the  homes  of  men, 
Adown  beneath  the  sod, 
My  heart  will  not  be  sad 

In  Thy  Home  !  Oh  !  my  God. 

Some  Wintry  day 

When  all  skies  wear  a  gloom, 
And  beauteous  May 

Sleeps  in  December's  tomb, — 
Shall  I  die  then  ? 
Ah  !  me  !  no  matter  when, 
My  soul  shall  throb  with  joy 

To  leave  the  haunts  of  men 
And  sleep  beneath  the  sod, — 
Ah  !  there  is  no  alloy 

In  Thy  joys  !  Oh  !  my  God. 

Haste,  Death  !  be  fleet, 
I  know  it  will  be  sweet 

To  rest  beneath  the  sod, — 
To  kneel  and  kiss  Thy  feet 

In  heaven,  Oh  !  my  God. 


THE  CONQUERED  BANNER. 

URL  that  Banner,  for  'tis  weary  ; 
y^Round  its  staff  'tis  drooping  dreary  ; 

Furl  it,  fold  it,  it  is  best  : 
For  there's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
And  there'  not  a  sword  to  save  it, 
And  there's  not  one  left  to  lave  it 
In  the  blood  which  heroes  gave  it ; 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it ; 
Furl  it,  hide  it — let  it  rest. 

Take  that  Banner  down,  'tis  tattered ; 
Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered ; 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered, 

Over  whom  it  floated  high. 
Oh  !  'tis  hard  for  us  to  fold  it ; 
Hard  to  think  there's  none  to  hold  it ; 
Hard  that  those,  who  once  unrolled  it, 

Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh. 

Furl  that  Banner — furl  it  sadly  ;  \ 
Once  ten  thousands  hailed  it  gladly, 
And  ten  thousands  wildly,  madly, 

Swore  it  should  forever  wave  ; 
Swore  that  foeman's  sword  should  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever, 
Till  that  flag  should  float  forever 

O'er  their  freedom,  or  their  grave ! 


THE  CONQUERED  BANNER. 

Furl  it !  for  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it, 

Cold  and. dead  are  lying  low  ; 
And  that  Banner — it  is  trailing  ! 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 

Of  its  people  in  their  woe. 

For,  though  conquered,  they  adore  it ! 
Love  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it ! 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it  ! 
Pardon  those  who  trailed  and  tore  it  I 
But,  oh  !  wildly  they  deplore  it, 
Now  who  furl  and  fold  it  so. 

Furl  that  Banner  !     True,  'tis  gory, 
Yet  'tis  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
And  'twill  live  in  song  and  story, 

Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust : 
For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages, 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages, 
Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages — 

Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must. 

Furl  that  Banner,  softly,  slowly, 
Treat  it  gently — it  is  holy — 

For  it  droops  above  the  dead. 
Touch  it  not — unfold  it  never, 
Let  it  droop  there,  furled  forever, 

For  its  people's  hopes  are  dead ! 


A  CHRISTMAS  CHAUNT. 

IIEY  ask  me  to  sing  them  a  Christmas  sonr, 

That  with  musical  mirth  shall  ring ; 
How  know  I  that  the  world's  great  throng 
Will  care  for  the  words  I  sing? 

Let  the  young  and  the  gay  chaunt  the  Christmas  lay, 

Their  voices  and  hearts  are  glad  ; 
But  I — I  am  old,  and  my  locks  are  gray, 

And  they  tell  me  my  voice  is  sad. 

Ah  !  once  I  could  sing,  when  my  heart  beat  warm 
With  hopes,  bright  as  Life's  first  spring  ; 

But  the  Spring  hath  fled,  and  the  golden  charm 
Hath  gone  from  the  songs  I  sing. 

I  have  lost  the  spell  that  my  verse  could  weave 
O'er  the  souls  of  the  old  and  young  ; 

And  never  again — how  it  makes  me  grieve — • 
Shall  I  sing  as  once  I  sung. 

Why  ask  a  song  ?  ah !  perchance  you  believe, 

Since  my  days  are' so  nearly  past, 
That  the  song  you'll  hear  on  this  Christmas  Eve, 

Is  the  old  man's  best  and  last. 

Do  you  want  the  jingle  of  rhythm  and  rhyme  ? 

Art's  sweet  but  meaningless  notes, 
Or  the  music  of  Thought  ?  that,  like  the  chime 

Of  a  grand  Cathedral ,  floats. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CHA  UNT.  J53 

Out  of  each  word,  and  along  each  line, 

Into  the  spirit's  ear, 
Lifting  it  up,  and  making  it  pine, 

For  a  Something  far  from  Here : 

Bearing  the  wings  of  the  soul  aloft 

From  earth  and  its  shadows  dim  ; 
Soothing  the  breast  with  a  sound  as  soft 

As  a  dream,  or  a  Seraph's  hymn ; 

Evoking  the  solemn est  hopes  and  fears 

From  our  Being's  higher  part, 
Dimming  the  eyes  with  radiant  tears 

That  flow  from  a  spell-bound  heart. 

Do  they  want  a  song  that  is  only  a  song, 

With  no  mystical  meanings  rife  ? 
Or  a  music  that  solemnly  moves  along — • 

The  undertone  of  a  life  ? 

Well,  then,  I'll  sing;  though. I  know  no  art, 
Nor  the  Poet's  rhymes  nor  rules — 

A  melody  moves  through  my  aged  heart 

Not  learned  from  the  books  or  schools : 

A  music  I  learned  in  the  days  long  gone — 

I  cannot  tell  where  or  how — 
But  no  matter  where,  it  still  sounds  on 

Back  of  this  wrinkled  brow ; 

And  down  in  my  heart  I  hear  it  still, 

Like  the  echoes  of  far-off  bells  ; 
Like  the  dreamy  sound  of  a  Summer  rill 

Flowing  through  fairy  dells. 


154  A  CHRISTMAS  CHA  UNT. 

But  what  shall  I  sing  for  the  world's  gay  throng, 
And  what  the  words  of  the  old  man's  song  ? 

The  world,  they  tell  me,  is  so  giddy  grown, 

That  Thought  is  rare  : 
And  thoughtless  minds  and  shallow  hearts  alone 

Hold  empire  there  ; 

That  fools  have  prestige,  place,  and  power,  and  fame, 

Can  it  be  true  ? 
That  wisdom  is  a  scorn,  a  hissing  shame, 

And  wise  are  few  ? 

They  tell  me,  too,  that  all  is  venal,  vain, 

With  high  and  low  ; 
That  Truth  and  Honor  are  the  slaves  of  Gain  ; 

Can  it  be  so  ? 

That  lofty  Principle  hath  long  been  dead 

-   And  in  a  shroud  : 

That  Virtue  walks  ashamed,  with  downcast  head, 
Amid  the  crowd. 

They  tell  me,  too,  that  few  they  are  who  own 

God's  Law  and  Love ; 
That  thousands,  living  for  this  earth  alone, 

Look  not  above  ; 

That  daily,  hourly,  from  the  bad  to  worse, 

Men  tread  the  path, 
Blaspheming  God,  and  careless  of  the  curse 

Of  His  dread  wrath. 

And  must  I  sing  for  slaves  of  sordid  gain, — 

Or  to  the  Few 
-Shall  I  not  dedicate  this  Christmas  strain 

Who  still  are  true  ? 


A  CHRISTMAS  CHAUNT.  155 

t      No — not  for  the  False  shall  I  strike  the  strings 

Of  the  lyre  that  was  mute  so  long ; 
If  I  sing  at  all — the  gray  bard  sings 

For  the  Few  and  the  True  his  song. 

And  ah  !  there  is  many  a  changeful  mood 

That  over  my  spirit  steals  ; 
Beneath  their  spell,  and  in  verses  rude, 

Whatever  he  dreams  or  feels  ; 

Whatever  the  fancies  this  Christmas  Eve 

Are  haunting  the  lonely  man  ; 
Whether  they  gladden,  or  whether  they  grieve, 

He'll  sing  them  as  best  he  can, 

Though  some  of  the  strings  of  his  lyre  are  broke 

This  holiest  night  of  the  year, 
Who  knows  how  its  melody  may  wake 

A  Christmas  smile  or  a  tear. 

So  on  with  the  mystic  song. 

With  its  meaning  manifold — 

Two  tones  in  every  word, 

Two  thoughts  in  every  tone  ; 
In  the  measured  words  that  move  along 

One  meaning  shall  be  heard, 

One  thought  to  all  be  told — 

But  under  it  all,  to  me  alone — 
And  under  it  all,  to  all  unknown  — 
As  safe  as  under  a  coffin-lid, 
Deep  meanings  shall  be  hid — • 

Find  them  out  who  can  !' 
The  thoughts  concealed  and  unrevealed 

In  the  song  of  the  lonely  man. 


156  A  CHRISTMAS  CHAUNT 


I'm  sitting  alone  in  my  silent  room 

This  long  December  night, 
Watching  the  fire-flame  fill  the  gloom 
With  many  a  picture  bright. 
Ah  !  how  the  fire  can  paint ! 
Its  magic  skill  how  strange  ! 
How  every  spark 
On  the  canvas  dark 
Draws  figures  and  forms  so  quaint  I 
And  how  the  pictures  change  ! 
One  moment  how  they  smile 
And  in  less  than  a  little  while. 
In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
Like  the  gleam  of  a  Summer  sky, 
The  beaming  smiles  all  die. 

From  gay  to  grave — from  grave  to  gay, 
The  faces  change  in  the  shadows  grey, 
And  just  as  I  wonder  who  are  they, 

Over  them  all 

Like  a  funeral  pall, 
The  folds  of  the  shadows  droop  and  fall, 

And  the  charm  is  gone 

And  every  one 
Of  the  pictures  fade  away. 

Ah  !  the  fire  within  my  grate 

Hath  more  than  Raphael's  power, 
Is  more  than  Raphael's  peer — 
It  paints  for  me  in  a  little  hour 

More  than  he  in  a  year ; 
And  the  pictures  hanging  'round  me  here 
This  holy  Christmas  eve 


A  CHRISTMAS  CHAUNT.  157 

No  Artist's  pencil  could  create 
No  Painter's  art  conceive. 
Ah  !  those  cheerful  faces 
Wearing  youthful  graces ; 
I  gaze  on  them  until  I  seem 
Half  awake  and  half  in  dream. 

There  are  brows  without  a  mark, 
Features  bright  without  a  shade  ; 
There  are  eyes  without  a  tear ; 
There  are  lips  unused  to  sigh. 
Ah  !  never  mind — you  soon  shall  die  ! 
All  those  faces  soon  shall  fade, 
Fade  into  the  dreary  dark, 
Like  their  pictures  hanging  here. 

Lo  !  those  tearful  faces, 

Bearing  Age's  traces  ! 

I  gaze  on  them,  and  they  on  me, 

Until  I  feel  a  sorrow  steal 
Through  my  heart  so  drearily  ; 

There  are  faces  furrowed  deep ; 
There  are  eyes  that  used  to  weep; 

There  are  brows  beneath  a  cloud  ; 
There  are  hearts  that  want  to  sleep. 
Never  mind  !  the  shadows  creep 

From  the  Death-land  ;  and  a  shroud, 
Tenderly  as  mother's  arm, 
Soon  shall  shield  the  old  from  harm ; 

Soon  shall  wrap  its  robe  of  Rest 

Round  each  sorrow-haunted  breast. 

— Ah  !  that  face  of  Mother's, 
Sisters's,  too,  and  Brother's  — 


158  A  CHRISTMAS  CHAUNT. 

And  so  many  others, 
Dear  is  every  name — 
And  Ethel !     Thou  art  there — 
With  thy  child-face  sweet  and  t'air, 
And  thy  heart  so  bright 
In  its  shroud  so  white  ; — • 
Just  as  I  saw  you  last 
In  the  golden,  happy  past, 
And  you  seem  to  wear 
Upon  your  hair, 
Your  waving,  golden  hair, 

The  smile  of  the  setting  sun — 
Ah  !  me  !  how  years  will  run- 
But  all  the  years  cannot  efface 
Your  purest  name,  your  sweetest  grace 
From  the  heart  that  still  is  true 
Of  all  the  world  to  you; 
The  other  faces  shine 
But  none  so  fair  as  thine, 
And,  wherever  they  are  to-night,  I  know 
They  look  the  very  same 

As  in  their  pictures  hanging  here 
This  night,  to  Memory  dear, 
And  painted  by  the  flames, 
With  tombstones  in  the  background, 
And  shadows  for  their  frames. 

And  thus,'  with  my  pictures  only, 
And  the  fancies  they  unweave 

Alone,  and  yet  not  lonely, 
I  keep  my  Christmas  Eve. 

I'm  sitting  alone  in  my  pictured  room-^« 
But,  no  !  they  have  vanished  all — • 


A  CHRISTMAS  CHA  UNT. 

I'm  watching  the  fire-glow  fade  into  gloom, 

I'm  watching  the  ashes  fall. 
And  far  away  back  of  the  cheerful  blaze 
The  beautiful  visions  of  by-gone  days 
Are  rising  before  my  raptured  gaze. 

Ah  !  Christmas  fire,  so  bright  and  warm, 
Hast  thou  a  wizard's  magic  charm 
To  bring  those  far-off  scenes  so  near 
And  make  my  past  days  meet  me  here  ? 
Tell  me— tell  me— how  is  it  ? 
The  past  is  past,  and  here  I  sit, 
And  there,  lo  !  there  before  me  rise, 
Beyond  yon  glowing  flame, 
The  summer  suns  of  childhood's  skies, 

Yes — yes — the  very  same  ! 
I  saw  them  rise  long,  long  ago ; 
I  played  beneath  their  golden  glow ; 
And  I  remember  yet, 
I  often  cried  with  strange  regret 
When  in  the  West  I  saw  them  set. 
And  there  they  are  again  ; 
The  suns,  the  skies,  the  very  days 
Of  childhood,  just  beyond  that  blaze  ! 
But,  ah !  such  visions  almost  craze 
The  old  man's  puzzled  brain  ! 
I  thought  the  Past  was  past ! 
But,  no,  it  cannot  be  ; 
'Tis  here  to-night  with  me  ! 

How  is  it,  then  ?  the  Past  of  Men 

Is  part  of  one  Eternity — 
The  days  of  yore  we  so  deplore, 
They  are  not  dead — they  are  not  fled,. 


j6o  A  CHRISTMAS  CHAUNT. 

They  live  and  live  for  evermore. 
And  thus  my  Past  comes  back  to  me 
With  all  its  visions  fair. 

O,  Past !  could  I  go  back  to  thee, 
And  live  forever  there  ! 
But,  no,  there's  frost  upon  my  hair ; 
My  feet  have  trod  a  path  of  Care  ; 

And  worn  and  wearied  here  I  sit, 

I  am  too  tired  to  go  to  it. 

And  thus  with  visions  only, 
And  the  fancies  they  unweave, 

Alone,  and  yet  not  lonely, 
I  keep  my  Christmas  Eve. 

I  am  sitting  alone  in  my  fire-lit  room  ; 

But,  no !  the  fire  is  dying, 

And  the  weary-voiced  winds,  in  the  outer  gloom, 
Are  sad,  and  I  hear  them  sighing. 
The  wind  hath  a  voice  to  pine — 

Plaintive,  and  pensive,  and  low,— 
Hath  it  a  heart,  like  mine  or  thine  ? 

Knoweth  it  weal  or  woe  ? 
How  it  wails,  in  a  ghost-like  strain, 
Just  against  that  window-pane  ! 
As  if  it  were  tired  of  its  long,  cold  flight, 
And  wanted  to  rest  with  me  to-night : 
Cease,  night-winds,  cease  ; 
Why  should  you  be  sad  ? 
This  is  a  night,  of  joy  and  peace, 

And  Heaven  and  Earth  are  glad  ! 
J3iit  still  the  wind's  voice  grieves  ! 
Perchance  o'er  the  fallen  leaves, 


A  CHRISTMAS  CHAUNT.  161 

Which,  in  their  Summer  bloom, 
Danced  to  the  music  of  bird  and  breeze, 
But,  torn  from  the  arms  of  their  parent  trees. 

Lie  now  in  their  wintry  tomb,  * 

Mute  types  of  man's  own  doom. 

And  thus  with  the  night  winds  only, 
And  the  fancies  they  unweave, 

Alone,  and  yet  not  lonely, 
I  keep  my  Christmas  Eve. 

How  long  have  I  been  dreaming  here  ? 

Or  have  I  dreamed,  at  all  ? 
My  fire  is  dead — my  pictures  fled  — 
There's  nothing  left  but  shadows  drear. 
Shadows  on  the  wall  : 
Shifting,  flitting, 
Round  me  sitting 
In  my  old  arm  chair — 
Rising — sinking 
Round  me,  thinking, 
Till,  in  the  maze  of  many  a  dream, 
I'm  not  myself  ;  and  I  almost  seem 
Like  one  of  the  shadows  there. 
Well,  let  the  shadows  stay! 
I  wonder  who  are  they  ? 
I  cannot  say;  but  I  almost  believe 
They  know  to-night  is  Christmas  Eve, 
And  to-morrow  Christmas  Day. 

Ah  !  there's  nothing  like  a  Christmas  Eve  ! 

To  change  Life's  bitter  gall  to  sweet, 
And  change  the  sweet  to  gall  again ; 

To  take  the  thorns  from  out  our  feet — 


162  A  CHRISTMAS  CHAUNT* 

The  thorns  and  all  their  dreary  pain, 
Only  to  put  them  back  again 

To  take  old  stings  from  out  our  heart, 
Old  stings  that  made  them  bleed  and  smart, 
Only  to  sharpen  them  the  more, 
And  press  them  back  to  the  heart's  own  core. 

Ah  !  no  eve  is  like  the  Christmas  Eve  ! 
Fears  and  hopes,  and  hopes  and  fears, 
Tears  and  smiles,  and  smiles  and  tears, 
Cheers  and  sighs,  and  sighs  and  cheers, 
Sweet  and  bitter,  bitter,  sweet, 

Bright  and  dark,  and  dark  and  bright. 
All  these  mingle,  all  these  meet, 

In  this  great  and  solemn  night. 

Ah !  there's  nothing  like  a  Christmas  Eve  ! 
To  melt  with  kindly  glowing  heat, 
From  off  our  souls  the  snow  and  sleet, 
The  dreary  drift  of  wintry  years, 

Only  to  make  the  cold  winds  blow, 
Only  to  make  a  colder  snow  ; 
And  make  it  drift,  and  drift,  and  drift, 
In  flakes  so  icy-cold  and  swift ; 
Until  the  heart  that  lies  below 
Is  cold  and  colder  than  the  snow. 

And  thus  with  the  shadows  only, 
And  the  dreamings  they  unweave, 

Alone,  and  yet  not  lonely, 
I  keep  my  Christmas  Eve. 

'Tis  passing  fast ! 
My  fireless,  lampless  room 


A  CHRISTMAS  CHAUNT.  163 

Is  a  mass  of  moveless  gloom  ; 
And  without — a  darkness  vast, 
Solemn — starless — still ! 
Heaven  and  Earth  doth  fill. 
But  list !  there  soundeth  a  bell, 
With  a  mystical  ding,  dong,  dell  ! 
Is  it,  say,  is  it  a  funeral  knell? 
Solemn  and  slow, 
Now  loud — now  low  ; 
Pealing  the  notes  of  human  woe 
Over  the  graves  lying  under  the  snow ! 
Ah  !  that  pitiless  ding,  dong,  dell ! 
Trembling  along  the  gale, 
Under  the  stars  and  over  the  snow. 
Why  is  it  ?  whence  is  it  sounding  so  ? 
Is  it  the  toll  of  a  burial  bell  ? 
Or  is  it  a  spirit's  wail  ? 
Solemnly,  mournfully 
Sad — and  how  lornfully  ! 

Ding,  dong,  dell ! 
Whence  is  it  ?  who  can  tell  ? 
And  the  marvelous  notes  they  sink  and  swell, 
Sadder,  and  sadder,  and  sadder  still  ! 
How  the  sounds  tremble  !  how  they  thrill ' 
Every  tone 
So  like  a  moan  ; 

As  if  the  strange  bell's  stranger  clang 
Throbbed  with  a  terrible  human  pang. 
Ding,  dong,  dell ! 
Dismally — drearily — 
Ever  so  wearily. 

Far  off  and  faint  as  a  Requiem  plaint 
Floats  the  deep-toned  voice  of  the  mystic  bell ; 


164  A  CHRISTMAS  CHAUNT. 

Piercingly — thrillingly, 
Icily — chillingly, 
Near — and  more  near. 
Drear,  and  more  drear, 
Soundeth  the  wild,  wierd,  ding,  dong,  dell  I 
Now  sinking  lower, 
It  tolleth  slower  ! 
I  list,  and  I  hear  its  sound  no  more, 

And  now,  methinks,  I  know  that  bell, 
Know  it  well — know  its  knell — • 
For  I  often  heard  it  sound  before. 
It  is  a  bell — yet  not  a  bell 
Whose  sound  may  reach  the  ear ! 
It  tolls  a  knell — yet  not  a  knell 
Which  earthly  sense  may  hear, 
In  every  soul  a  bell  of  dole 

Hangs  ready  tc  be  tolled  ; 
And  from  that  bell  a  funeral  knell 

Is  often,  outward  rolled  ; 
And  Memory  is  the  Sexton  grey 

Who  tolls  the  dreary  knell 
And  nights  like  this  he  loves  to  sway 

And  swing  his  mystic  bell. 
'Twas  that  I  heard  and  nothing  more. 

This  lonely  Christmas  Eve  ; 

Then,  for  the  dead  I'll  meet  no  more. 

At  Christmas  let  me  grieve. 

Night,  be  a  Priest  !  put  your  star-Stole  on 

And  murmur  a  holy  prayer 
Over  each  grave,  and  for  every  one 

Lying  down  lifeless  there  ! 
And  over  the  dead  stands  the  high  priest  Night, 

Robed  in  his  shadowy  Stole  ; 


A  CHRISTMAS  CHAUNT,  165 

And  beside  him  I  kneel,  as  his  Acolyte, 
To  respond  to  his  prayer  of  dole. 
And  list !  he  begins 
That  psalm  for  sins, 
The  first  of  the  mournful  seven, 
Plaintive  and  soft 
It  rises  aloft, 

Begging  the  mercy  of  Heaven 
To  pity  and  forgive, 
For  the  sake  of  those  who  live. 
The  dead  who  have  died  unshriven. 

Miserere  !  Miserere  ! 
Still  your  heart  and  hush  your  breath  ( 
The  voices  of  Despair  and  Death 

Are  shuddering  through  the  psalm! 

Miserere !  Miserere  ' 
Lift  your  hearts  !  the  terror  dies ! 
Up  in  yonder  sinless  skies 

The  psalms  sound  sweet  and  calm  ! 

Miserere !  Miserere ! 
Very  low,  in  tender  tones, 
The  music  pleads,  the  music  moans, 
"  I  forgive,  and  have  forgiven, 
The  dead,  whose  hearts  were  shriven." 

De  profundis  !   De  profundis  ! 
Psalm  of  the  dead  and  disconsolate  ! 
Thou  hast  sounded  through  a  thousand  years, 
And  pealed  above  ten  thousand  biers  ; 
And  still,  sad  psalm,  you  mourn  the  fate 

Of  sinners  and  of  just, 
When  their  souls  are  going  up  to  God, 

Their  bodies  down  to  dust. 


166  A  CHRISTMAS  CHAUNT. 

Dread  hymn  !  you  wring  the  saddest  tears 

From  mortal  eyes  that  fall, 
And  your  notes  evoke  the  darkest  fears 

That  human  hearts  appall ! 

You  sound  o'er  the  good,  you  sound  o'er  the  bad. 
And  ever  your  music  is  sad,  so  sad, 
We  seem  to  hear  murmured,  in  every  tone, 
For  the  saintly,  a  blessing  ;  for  sinners,  a  curse. 
Psalm,  sad  Psalm !  you  must  pray  and  grieve 
Over  our  Dead  on  this  Christmas  Eve. 

De  profundis !  De  profundis  ! 

And  the  Night  chaunts  the  Psalm  o'er  the  mortal  "lay, 
And  the  spirits  immortal  from  far  away, 
To  the  music  of  Hope  sing  this  sweet-toned  lay : 

You  think  of  the  Dead  on  Christmas  eve, 

Wherever  the  Dead  are  sleeping ; 
And  we,  from  a  Land  where  we  may  not  grieve, 

Look  tenderly  down  on  your  weeping. 
You  think  us  far ;  we  are  very  near, 

From  you  and  the  Earth  though  parted. 
We  sing  to-night  to  console  and  cheer 

The  hearts  of  the  broken-hearted. 
The  earth  watches  over  the  lifeless  clay 

Of  each  of  its  countless  sleepers  ; 
And  the  sleepless  Spirits  that  passed  away 

Watch  over  all  Earth's  weepers. 
We  shall  meet  again  in  a  brighter  land, 

Where  farewell  is  never  spoken  ; 
We  shall  clasp  each  other  hand  in  hand, 

And  the  clasp  shall  not  be  broken, 
We  shall  meet  again,  in  a  bright,  calm  clime, 

Where  we'll  never  know  a  sadness ; 
And  our  lives  shall  be  filled,  like  a.  Christmas  chime, 


A  CHRISTMAS  CHAUNT. 

With  rapture  and  with  gladness. 
The  snows  shall  pass  from  our  graves  away, 

And  you  from  the  Earth,  remember ; 
And  the  flowers  of  a  bright,  eternal  May, 

Shall  follow  Earth's  December. 
When  you  think  of  us,  think  not  of  the  tomb 

Where  you  laid  us  down  in  sorrow  ; 
But  look  aloft,  and  beyond  Earth's  gloom, 

And  wait  for  the  great  To-morrow. 

And  the  Pontiff,  Night,  with  his  star-Stole  on, 
Whispereth  soft  and  low  : 
Requiescat !  Requiescat ! 
Peace  !  Peace  !  to  every  one 
For  whom  we  grieve  this  Christmas  Eve, 
In  their  graves  beneath  the  snow. 

The  stars  in  the  far  off  Heaven 

Have  long  since  struck  eleven ! 

And  hark  !  from  Temple  and  from  Tower, 

Soundeth  Time's  grandest  midnight  hour, 

Blessed  by  the  Saviour's  birth. 

And  Night  putteth  off  the  sable  Stole, 

Symbol  of  sorrow  and  sign  of  dole, 

For  one  with  many  a  starry  gem, 

To  honor  the  Babe  of  Bethlehem, 

Who  comes  to  men,  the  King  of  them, 

Yet  conies  without  robe  or  diadem, 

And  all  turn  towards  the  holy  East, 

To  hear  the  song  of  the  Christmas  Feast. 

Four  thousand  years  Earth  waited, 
Four  thousand  years  men  prayed, 

Four  thousand  years  the  Nations  sighed 
That  their  King  so  long  delayed. 


i68  A  CHRISTMAS  CHA  UNT. 

The  Prophets  told  His  coming, 
The  saintly  for  Him  sighed ; 

And  the  star  of  the  Babe  of  Bethlehem 
Shone  o'er  them  when  they  died. 

Their  faces  towards  the  Future — • 
They  longed  to  hail  the  Light 

That  in  the  after  centuries, 

Would  rise  on  Christmas  night. 

But  still  the  Saviour  tarried, 

Within  His  Father's  home; 

And  the  Nations  wept  and  wondered  why 
The  Promised  had  not  come. 

At  last  Earth's  hope  was  granted, 
And  God  was  a  Child  of  Earth ; 

And  a  thousand  Angels  chaunted 
The  lowly  midnight  birth. 

Ah !  Bethlehem  was  grander 
That  hour  than  Paradise; 

And  the  light  of  Earth  that  night  eclipsed 
The  splendors  of  the  skies. 

Then  let  us  sing  the  Anthem 
The  Angels  once  did  sing ; 

Until  the  music  of  love  and  praise, 
O'er  whole  wide  world  will  ring. 

Gloria  in  excelsis ! 

Sound  the  thrilling  song  ! 
In  excelsis  Deo  ! 

Roll  the  Hymn  along. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CHAUNT.  169 

Gloria  in  excelsis ! 

Let  the  Heavens  ring; 
In  excelsis  Deo  ! 

Welcome,  new-born  King. 
Gloria  in  excelsis  ! 

Over  the  sea  and  land ; 
In  excelsis  Deo  ! 

Chaunt  the  Anthem  grand. 
Gloria  in  excelsis ! 
*    Let  us  all  rejoice  ; 
In  excelsis  Deo  ! 

Lift  each  heart  and  voice. 
Gloria  in  excelsis ! 
.    Swell  the  Hymn  on  high ; 
In  excelsis  Deo  ! 

Sound  it  to  the  sky. 
Gloria  in  excelsis  ! 

Sing  it,  sinful  Earth ! 
In  excelsis  Deo  ! 

For  the  Saviour's  birth.    - 

Thus  joyful  and  victoriously, 

Glad  and  ever  so  gloriously ; 

High  as  the  Heavens — wide  as  the  Earth, 

Swelleth  the  Hymn  of  the  Saviour's  birth. 

Lo  !  the  Day  is  waking 

In  the  East  afar  ; 
Dawn  is  faintly  breaking — 

Sunk  in  every  star. 

Christmas  Eve  has  vanished 

With  its  shadows  grey  ; 
All  its  griefs  are  banished 

By  bright  Christmas  Day. 


170  A  CHRISTMAS  CHAUNT. 

Joyful  chimes  are  ringing 
O'er  the  land  and  seas, 

And  there  comes  glad  singing, 
Borne  on  every  breeze. 

Little  ones  so  merry 
Bed-clothes  coyly  lift, 

And,  in  such  a  hurry, 

Prattle,  "  Christmas  gift ! " 

Little  heads  so  curly, 
Knowing  Christmas  laws. 

Peep  out  very  early 

For  old  "Santa  Glaus." 

Little  eyes  are  laughing 
O'er  their  Christmas  toys, 

Older  ones  are  quaffing 
Cups  of  Christmas  joys. 

Hearts  are  joyous,  cheerful, 
Faces  all  are  gay ; 

None  are  sad  and  tearful 
On  bright  Christmas  Day. 

Hearts  are  light  and  bounding, 
All  from  care  are  free  ; 

Homes  are  all  resounding, 
With  the  sounds  of  glee. 

Feet  with  feet  are  meeting, 
Bent  on  pleasure's  way  ; 

.Souls  to  souls  give  greeting 
Warm  on  Christmas  Day. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CHAUNT.  j7I 

Gifts  are  kept  a-going 

Fast  from  hand  to  hand ; 
Blessings  are  a-flowing 

Over  every  land. 

One  vast  wave  of  gladness 

Sweeps  its  world-wide  way, 
Drowning  every  sadness 

On  this  Christmas  Day. 

Merry,  merry  Christmas, 

Haste  around  the  Earth  ; 
Merry,  merry  Christmas 

Scatter  smiles  and  mirth. 

Merry,  merry  Christmas, 

Be  to  one  and  all ; 
Merry,  merry  Christmas 

Enter  hut  and  hall. 

Merry,  merry  Christmas, 

Be  to  rich  and  poor  ! 
Merry,  merry  Christinas 

Stop  at  every  door. 

Merry,  merry  Christmas, 

Fill  each  heart  with  joy  ; 
Merry,  merry  Christmas 

To  each  girl  and  boy. 

Merry,  merry  Christmas, 

Better  gifts  than  gold  ; 
Merry,  merry  Christmas 

To  the  young  and  old. 

Merry,  rnerry  Christmas  ! 

May  the  coming  year 
Bring  as  merry  a  Christmas 

And  as  bright  a  cheer. 


"FAR  AWAY." 

AR  AWAY  !  what  does  it  mean  ? 
m     A  change  of  heart  with  a  change  of  place  ? 
When  footsteps  pass  from  scene  to  scene, 
Fades  soul  from  soul  with  face  from  face  ? 
Are  hearts  the  slaves  or  lords  of  space  ? 

"  Far  Away  !  "  what  does  it  mean  ? 

Does  distance  sever  There  from  Here  ? 
Can  leagues  of  land  part  hearts  ? — I  ween 
They  cannot ; — for  the  trickling  tear 
Says  "  Far  Away,"  means,  "  Far  More  Near." 

"  Far  away!" — the  mournful  miles 

Are  but  the  mystery  of  space 
That  blends  our  sighs,  but  parts  our  smiles, 
For  love  will  find  a  meeting  place 
When  face  is  farthest  off  from  face. 

"  Far  away  !"  we  meet  in  dreams, 

As  'round  the  Altar  of  the  Night 
Far  parted  stars  send  down  their  gleams 
To  meet  in  one  embrace  of  light, 
And  make  the  brow  of  darkness  bright. 

"  Far  away  ! "  we  meet  in  tears, 

That  tell  the  path  of  weary  feet 
And  all  the  Good-byes  of  the  years 

But  make  the  wanderer's  welcome  sweet. 
The  rains  of  parted  clouds  thus  meet. — - 


"FAR  AWAY:'  173 

"  Far  away  !  "  we  meet  in  prayer, 

You  know  the  temple  and  the  shrine  ; 
Before  it  bows  the  brow  of  care, 
Upon  it  tapers  dimly  shine  ; 
'Tis  Mercy's  Home,  and  yours  and  mine.— 

"  Far  away  !"  it  falls  between 
What  is  to-day,  and  what  has  been  ; 
But  ah  !  what  is  meets  What  is  not, 
In  every  hour  and  every  spot, 
Where  lips  breathe  on  "  I  have  forgot." 

"  Far  away  ! "  there  is  no  Far  ! 
Nor  days  nor  distance  e'er  can  bar 
My  spirit  from  your  spirits  ;  —nay, 
Farewell  may  waft  a  face  away, 
But  still  with  you  my  heart  will  stay. 

"  Far  away  ! "  I  sing  its  song, 

But  while  the  music  moves  along, 

From  out  each  word  an  echo  clear 

Falls  trembling  on  my  spirit's  ear, 
"  Far  away  "  means  Far  more  near. 


LISTEN. 

E  borrow, — 
In  our  sorrow— 
From  the  sun  of  some  to-morrow 
Half  the  light  that  gilds  to-day  ;- 

And  the  splendor, 
Flashes  tender, — 

O'er  Hope's  footsteps,  to  defend  her 
From  the  fears  that  haunt  the  way. 

We  never, — 
Here  can  sever — 
Any  Now  from  the  Forever 
Interclasping  Near  and  Far ! 
For  each  minute 
Holds  within  it 
All  the  hours  of  the  Infinite. 
As  one  sky  holds  every  star. 


WRECKED. 

HE  winds  are  singing  a  death-knell 

Out  on  the  main  to-night ; 
The  sky  droops  low, — and  many  a  bark, 
That  sailed  from  harbors  bright, 
Like  many  an  one  before 
Shall  enter  port  no  more  : 

And  a  wreck  shall  drift  to  some  unknown  shore, 
Before  to-morrow's  light. 

The  clouds  are  hanging  a  death-pall 

Over  the  sea  to-night, 
The  stars  are  veiled— and  the  hearts  that  sailed 

Away  from  harbors  bright, 
Shall  sob  their  last  for  their  quiet  home — 
And  sobbing,  sink  'neath  the  whirling  foam 

Before  the  morning's  light. 

The  waves  are  weaving  a  death-shroud 

Out  on  the  main  to-night ; 
Alas  !  the  last  prayer  whispered  there 
By  lips  with  terror  white 
Over  the  ridge  of  gloom 
Not  a  star  will  loom  ! 

God  help  the  souls  that  will  meet  their  doom 
Before  the  dawn  of  light. 


176  SORRO  W  AND  THE  FLO  WERS. 

The  breeze  is  singing  a  Joy  song 

Over  the  sea  to-day  ; 
The  storm  is  dead, — and  the  waves  are  red 

With  the  flush  of  the  morning's  ray  ; — 
And  the  sleepers  sleep,  but  beyond  the  deep, 
The  eyes  that  watch  for  the  ships,  shall  weep 

For  the  hearts  they  bore  away. 


SORROW  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 

A    MEMORIAL    WREATH    TO    C.    F. 
SORROW  : 

GARLAND  for  a  grave  !    Fair  flowers  that  bloom, 

And  only  bloom  to  fade  as  fast  away, 
We  twine  your  leaflets  'round  our  Claudia's  tomb, 
And  with  your  dying  beauty  crown  her  clay. 

Ye  are  the  tender  types  of  life's  decay ; 

Your  beauty,  and  your  love-enfragranced  breath, 
From  out  the  hand  of  June,  or  heart  of  May, 

Fair  flowers  !  tell  less  of  life  and  more  of  death. 

My  name  is  Sorrow.  I  have  knelt  at  graves, 
All  o'er  the  weary  world,  for  weary  years  ; 

I  kneel  there  still,  and  still  my  anguish  laves 

The  sleeping  dust  with  moaning  streams  of  tears. 


SORROW  AND  THE  FLOWERS.  177 

And  yet,  the  while  I  garland  graves  as  now, 

>.  I  bring  fair  wreaths  to  deck  the  place  of  woe, 
Whilst  Joy  is  crowning  many  a  living  brow, 

I  crown  the  poor  frail  dust  that  sleeps  below. 

She  was  a  Flower — fresh,  fair  and  pure  and  frail ; 

A  Lily  in  life's  morning  :    God  is  sweet ; 
He  reached  His  hand,  there  rose  a  mother's  wail ; 

Her  Lily  drooped  :    'tis  blooming  at  His  feet. 

Where  are  the  flowers  to  crown  the  faded  Flower  ? 

I  want  a  garland  for  another  grave  ; 
And  who  will  bring  them  from  the  dell  and  bower  ? 

To  crown  what  God  hath  taken,  with  what  Heav 
en  gave. 

As  though  ye  heard  my  voice,  ye  heed  my  will ; 

Ye  come  with  fairest  flowers  :    give  them  to  me, 
To  crown  our  Claudia.     Love  leads  Memory  still, 

To  prove  at  graves  Love's  immortality. 

WHITE  ROSE  : 
Her  grave  is  not  a  grave ;  it  is  a  Shrine, 

-  Where  innocence  reposes, 
Bright  over  which  God's  stars  must  love  to  shine, 

And  where,  when  Winter  closes, 
Fair  Spring  shall  come,  and  in  her  garland  twine, 
Just  like  this  hand  of  mine, 

The  whitest  of  white  roses. 

LAUREL : 
I  found  it  on  a  mountain  slope, 

The  sunlight  on  its  face  ; 
It  caught  from  clouds  a  smile  of  hope 

That  brightened  all  the  place. 


178  SORROW  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 

They  wreathe  with  it  the  warrior's  brow, 
And  crown  the  chieftain's  head  ; 

But  the  Laurel's  leaves  love  best  to  grace 
The  garland  of  the  dead. 

WILD    FLOWER  I 

I  would  not  live  in  a  garden, 

But  far  from  the  haunts  of  men  ; 

Nature  herself  was  my  warden  ; 
I  lived  in  a  lone  little  glen. 

A  Wild  Flower  out,of  the  wildwood. 

0 

Too  wild  for  even  a  name  ; 
As  strange  and  as  simple  as  childhood. 
And  wayward,  yet  sweet  all  the  same. 
«» 

WILLOW    BRANCH  : 

To  Sorrow's  own  sweet  crown, 

With  simple  grace, 

The  Weeping-Willow  bends  her  branches  down 
Just  like  a  mother's  arm, 
To  shield  from  harm, 

The  dead  within  their  resting  place. 

i 

LILY  : 

The  Angel  Flower  of  all  the  flowers  ; 

Its  sister  flowers, 

In  all  the  bowers, 
Worship  the  Lily,  for  it  brings, 

Wherever  it  blooms, 

On  shrines  or  tombs, 
A  dream  surpassing  earthly  sense 
Of  Heaven's  own  stainless  innocence. 


SORROW  AND  THE  FLOWERS.  179 

VIOLET    LEAVES : 

It  is  too  late  for  Violets, 

I  only  bring  their  leaves  ; 
I  looked  in  vain  for  Mignonettes 

To  grace  the  crown  grief  weaves  ; 
For  queenly  May,  upon  her  way, 
Robs  half  the  bowers 
Of  all  their  flowers, 
And  leaves  but  leaves  to  June, 
Ah  !  beauty  fades  so  soon  ; 
And  the  valley  grows  lonely  in  spite  of  the  sun, 
For  flowrets  are  fading  fast,  one  by  one. 

Leaves  for  a  grave,  leaves  for  a  garland, 
Leaves  for  a  Little  Flower,  gone  to  the  Far  Land. 

\ 
FORGET-ME-NOT: 

"  Forget  me  not."     The  sad  words  strangely  quiver, 
On  lips  like  shadows  falling  on  a  river, 
Flowing  away, 
By  night,  by  day, 
Flowing  away  forever. 
The  mountain  whence  the  river  springs, 

Murmurs. to  it,  "Forget  me  not;" 
The  little  stream  runs  on  and  sings 
On  to  the  sea,  and  every  spot 
It  passes  by 
Breathes  forth  a  sigh, 
"  Forget  me  not,"  "  Forget  me  not." 

A    GARLAND  *. 

I  bring  this  for  her  mother  ;  ah  !  who  knows 
The  lonely  deeps  within  a  mother's  heart  ? 
Beneath  the  wildest  wave  of  woe  that  flows 
Above,  around  her,  when  her  children  part, 


i8o  SORROW  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 

There  is  a  sorrow,  silent,  dark,  and  lone ; 
It  sheds  no  tears,  it  never  maketh  moan. 

Whene'er  a  child  dies  from  a  mother's  arms, 

A  grave  is  dug  within  the  mother's  heart : 

She  watches  it  alone  ;  no  words  of  art 

Can  tell  the  story  of  her  vigils  there. 

This  garland  fading  even  while  'tis  fair, 

It  is  a  mother's  memory  of  a  grave, 

When  God  hath  taken  her  whom  Heaven  gave. 

SORROW  : 

Farewell !     I  go  to  crown  the  dead  ; 
Yet  ye  have  crowned  yourselves  to-day, 
For  they,  whose  hearts  so  faithful,  love 
The  lonely  grave — the  very  clay  ; 
They  crown  themselves  with  richer  gems 
Than  flash  in  royal  diadems. 


A  THOUGHT. 

EARTS  that  are  great  beat  never  loud, 

They  muffle  their  music,  when  they  come  ; 
They  hurry  away  from  the  thronging  crowd 
With  bended  brows  and  lips  half  dumb. 

And  the  world  looks  on  and  mutters—"  Proud." 
But  when  great  hearts  have  passed  away 

Men  Bother  in  awe  and  kiss  their  shroud, 

And  in  love  they  kneel  around  their  clay. 

Hearts  that  are  great  are  always  lone,— 
They  never  will  manifest  their  best  ;— 

Their  greatest  greatness  is  unknown, — 
Eailh  knows  a  little-  God,  the  rest. 


"DREAMING." 

HE  moan  of  a  Wintry  soul 

r*^     Melted  into  a  Summer-song, 
And  the  words,  like  the  wavelet's  roll 
Moved  murmuringly  along. 

And  the  Song  flowed  far  and  away 

Like  the  Voice  of  a  half-sleeping  rill  — 

Each  wave  of  it  lit  by  a  ray, — 

But  the  sound  was  so  soft  and  so  still, — 

And  the  tone  was  so  gentle  and  low, — 
None  heard  the  song  till  it  had  passed  ; — 

Till  the  echo,  that  followed  its  now 
Came  dreamingly  back  from  the  Past. 

'Twas  too  late  ! — a  song  never  returns 
That  passes  our  pathway, — unheard  ;  — 

As  dust  lying  dreaming  in  Urns 
Is  the  Song  lying  dead  in  a  word. 

For  the  birds  of  the  skies  have  a  nest — 

And  the  winds  have  a  home  where  they  sleep- 

And  songs,  like  our. souls,  need  a  rest, 

Where  they  murmur  the  while  we  may  weep. 

#         -.v         #         *          %v         x         x         x 

But  songs — like  the  birds  o'er  the  foam, 

Where  the  storm-wind  is  beating  their  breast 

Fly  shoreward — and  oft  find  a  home 
In  the  shelter  of  words  where  they  rest. 


"YESTERDAYS." 

ONE  !  and  they  return  no  more, 

But  they  leave  a  light  in  the  heart, 
The  murmur  of  waves  that  kiss  a  shore 
Will  never,  I  know,  depart. 

Gone !  yet  with  us  still  they  stay, 

And  their  memories  throb  thro'  li'fe, 

The  music  that  hushes  or  stirs  to-day, 
Is  toned  by  their  calm  or  strife. 

Gone  !  and  yet  they  never  go  ! 

We  kneel  at  the  shrine  of  Time, 
'Tis  a  mystery  no  man  may  'know, 

Nor  tell  in  a  Poet's  rhyme. 


"TO-DAYS!" 

|RIEF  while  they  last, 

Long  when  they  are  gone ; 
They  catch  from  the  past, 
A  light  to  still  live  on. 

Brief  !  yet  I  ween, 

A  day  may  be  an  age, 
The  Poet's  pen  may  screen 

Heart-stories  on  one  page. 

Brief  !  but  in  them, 

From  eve  back  to  morn, 

Some  find  the  gem, 
Many  find  the  thorn. 

Brief  !  minutes  pass  ! 

Soft  as  flakes  of  snow, 
Shadows  o'er  the  grass 

Could  not  swifter  go. 

Brief  !  but  along 

All  the  after-years 
To-day  will  be  a  song 

Of  smiles  or  of  tears. 


"  TO-MORROWS  ! " 

OD  knows  all  things, — but  we 
In  darkness  walk  our  ways. 
We  wonder  what  will  be, 

We  ask  the  Nights  and  Days. 

Their  lips  are  sealed  ;  at  times 
The  Bards,  like  Prophets  see,. 

And  rays  rush  o'er  their  rhymes 
From  suns  of  "  days  to  be." 

They  see  To-morrow's  Heart, 
They  read  To-morrow's  face, 

They  grasp, — is  it  by  art  ? 
The  far  To-morrow's  trace. 

They  see  what  is  unseen, 
And  hear  what  is  unheard — • 

And  To-morrow's  shade  or  sheen 
Rests  on  the  Poet's  word. 

As  Seers  see  a  star 

Beyond  the  brow  of  Night : 
So  Poets  scan  the  Far, 

Prophetic  when  they  write. 

They  read  a  human  face, 
As  Readers  read  their  Page, 

The  while  their  thought  will  trace 
A  life  from  youth  to  Age. 


i86  "TO-MORROWS." 

They  have  a  mournful  Gift, 
Their  verses,  oft,  are  tears ; 

And  sleepless  eyes  they  lift 
To  look  adown  the  years. 

To-morrows  are  To-days  ! 

Is  it  not  more  than  art  ? 
When  all  life's  winding  \vays 

Meet  in  the  Poet's  Heart. 

The  Present  meets  the  Past, 
The  Future,  too,  is  there  ; 

The  First  enclasps 'the  Last, 
And  Never  folds  Fore'er. 

It  is  not  all  a  dream ; 

A  Poet's  thought  is  Truth  ; 
The  things  that  are — and  seem 

From  Age  far  back  to  Youth — 

He  holds  the  tangled  threads  ; 

His  hands  unravel  them  ; 
He  knows  the  Hearts  and  Heads 

For  Thorns,  or  Diadem. 

Ask  him,  and  he  will  see, 
What  your  To-morrows  are  ; 

He'll  sing  "  What  is  to  be  " 
Beneath  each  sun  and  star. 

To-morrows  !   Dread  Unknown  ! 

What  fates  may  they  not  bring? 
What  is  the  chord,  the  tone? 

The  key  in  which  they  sing  ? 


"TO-MORRO  WSr  187 

I  see  a  thousand  throngs, 

To-morrows  for  them  wait ; 
I  hear  a  thousand  songs 

Intoning  each  one's  fate. 

And  yours  ?     What  will  it  be  ? 

Hush  song  !  and  let  me  pray  ! 
God  sees  it  all,  I  see 

A  long,  lone,  winding  way  ; 

And  more  !  no  matter  what ! 

Crosses  and  crowns  you  wear : 
My  song  may  be  forgot, 

But  Thou  shalt  not,  in  Prayer. 


"INEVITABLE." 

HAT  has  been  will  be,— 

'Tis  the  under-law  of  life,— 
Tis  the  song  of  sky  and  sea, — 
To  the  Key  of  calm  and  strife.- 

For  guard  we  as  we  may, 

What  is  to  be  will  be, 
The  dark  must  fold  each  day — 

The  shore  must  gird  each  sea. 

All  things  are  ruled  by  law,— 

'Tis  only  in  man's  will 
You  meet  a  feeble  flaw, — 

But  fate  is  weaving  still — 


1 83  "INEVITABLE:* 

The  web  and  woof  of  life 

With  hands  that  have  no  hearts — 

Thro'  calmness  and  thro'  strife 
Despite  all  human  arts. 

For  fate  is  master  here — 

He  laughs  at  human  wiles, — 

He  sceptres  every  tear, 
And  fetters  any  smile. 

What  is  to  be  will  be — 
We  cannot  help  ourselves, 

The  waves  ask  not  the  sea 
Where  lies  the  shore  that  shelves. 

The  law  is  coldest  steel 
We  live  beneath  its  sway — 

It  cares  not  what  we  feel, 
And  so  pass  night  and  day. 

And  sometimes  we  may  think 
This  cannot, — will  not  be- 
Some  waves  must  rise, — some  sink 
Out  on  the  midnight  sea. 

And  we  are  weak  as  waves 
That  sink  upon  the  shore, 

We  go  down  into  Graves — 
Fate  chaunts  the  Nevermore  ; 


Cometh  a  Voice  !  Kneel  down ! 

'Tis  God's,— there  is  no  Fate— 
He  giveth  the  Cross  and  Crown, 

He  opens  the  jeweled  gate — 


.    HOPE!  189 


He  watcheth  with  such  eyes 

As  only  mothers  own, — 

44  Sweet  Father  in  the  skies  ! 

Ye  call  us  to  a  Throne." 

There  is  no  Fate, — God's  love 
Is  law  beneath  each  law, 

And  law  all  laws  above 

Fore'er, — without  a  flaw. — 


HOPE  ! 

HINE  eyes  are  dim  : 

A  mist  hath  gathered  there  : 
Around  their  rim, 

Float  many  clouds  of  care, 

And  there  is  sorrow  every — everywhere. 

But  there  is  God, 

Every — everywhere ; 
Beneath  His  rod, 

Kneel  thou,  adown  in  prayer. 

For  Grief  is  God's  own  kiss, 

Upon  a  soul. 
Look  up  !  the  sun  of  bliss 

Will  shine  where  storm-clouds  roll. 


1 9Q  " FAREWELLS?' 

Yes,  weeper !  weep ! 

'Twill  not  be  evermore  ; 
I  know  the  darkest  deep 

Hath  e'en  the  brightest  shore. 

So  tired  !  so  tired  ! 

A  cry  of  half  despair  ; 
Look  !  .at  your  side — 

And  see  who  standeth  there ! 

Your  Father  !     Hush, 

A  Heart  beats  in  His  breast — 

Now  rise  and  rush 

Into  His  Arms — and  rest. 


"  FAREWELLS  ! " 

|  HEY  are  so  sad  to  say  :  no  poem  tells 

agony  of  hearts  that  dwells 
In  lone  and  last  Farewells. 

They  are  like  deaths  :  they  bring  a  wintry  chill 
To  summer's  roses,  and  to  summer's  rill ; 
And  yet  we  breathe  them  still. 

For  pure  as  altar-lights  hearts  pass  away ; 
Hearts  !  we  said  to  them,  "  Stay  with  us  !  stay  ! 
And  they  said,  sighing  as  they  said  it,  "  Nay." 


SONG  OF  THE  RIVER.  1911 

The  sunniest  days  are  shortest ;  darkness  tells 
The  starless  story  of  the  Night  that  dwells 
In  lone  and  last  Farewells. 

Two  faces  meet  here,  there,  or  anywhere : 

Each  wears  the  thoughts  the  other  face  may  wear ; 

Their  hearts  may  break,  breathing,  "  Farewell  fore'er." 


SONG  OF  THE  RIVER. 

RIVER  went  singing,  adown  to  the  sea, 

A-singing — low — singing — 
And  the  dim  rippling  river  said  softly  to  me 
"  I'm  bringing, — a-bringing — 
While  floating  along — 
A  beautiful  song 
To  the  shores  that  are  white  where  the  waves  are  so 

weary, 

To  the  beach  that  is  burdened  with  wrecks  that  are 
dreary. 

A  song  sweet  and  calm 
As  the  peacefulest  psalm  ; 
And  the  shore  that  was  sad 
Will  be  grateful  and  glad, — 
And  the  weariest  wave  from  its  dreariest  dream 
Will  wake  to  the  sound  of  the  song  of  the  stream  : 
And  the  tempests  shall  cease 
And  there  shall  be  Peace." 


192  SONG  OF  THE  RIVER. 

From  the  fairest  of  fountains 
And  farthest  of  mountains, 
From  the  stillness  of  snow 
Came  the  stream  in  its  flow. 

Down  the  slopes  where  the  rockc  are  gray, 

Thro'  the  vales  where  the  flowers  are  fair — 
Where  the  sunlight  flashed — where  the  shadows  lay 
Like  stories  that  cloud  a  face  of  care, — 
The  river  ran  on, — and  on, — and  on 
Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day 
Going  and  going  ;  and  never  gone, 

Longing  to  flow  to  the  "  Far  away  " — 
Staying  and  staying,  and  never  still 
Going  and  staying  as  if  one  will, 
Said  "  Beautiful  River  go  to  the  sea," 
And  another  will  whispered,  "  Stay  with  me :" 
And  the  river  made  answer,  soft  and  low — 
"  I  go  and  stay" — "  I  stay  and  go." 

But  what  is  the  song,  I  said,  at  last 
To  the  passing  river  that  never  passed  ; — 
And  a  white,  white  wave  whispered,  "  List  to  me, 
I'm  a  note  in  the  song  for  the  beautiful  sea, 
A  song  whose  grand  accents  no  earth-din  may  sever 
And  the  river  flows  on  in  the  same  mystic  key 
That  blends  in  one  chord  the  '  Forever  and  Never,'  " 
DECEMBER  i5th,  1878. 


DREAMLAND. 

IVER  the  silent  sea  of  sleep, 

Far  away  !  far  away  ! 
Over  a  strange  and  starlit  deep, 

Where  the  beautiful  shadows  sway,- 
Dim,  in  the  dark — 
Glideth  a  bark — 

Where  never  the  waves  of  a  tempest  roll- 
Bearing  the  very  "soul  of  the  soul" 

Alone,  all  alone — 
Far  away — far  away, 

To  shores  all-unknown 
In  the  wakings  of  the  day  ;— 
To  the  lovely  land  of  dreams, 
Where  what  is  meets  with  what  seems 
Brightly-dim  ; — dimly-bright 
Where  the  suns  meet  stars  at  night, 
Where  the  darkness  meets  the  light 
Heart  to  heart,  face  to  face 
In  an  infinite  embrace. 


Mornings  break, 
And  we  wake, 

And  we  wonder  where  we  went 
In  the  bark 
Thro'  the  dark. 
But  our  wonder  is  mis-spent 
For  no  Day  can  cast  a  light 
On  the  dreamings  of  the  Night. 


LINES. 

pOMETIMES  from  the  Far-away,— 
Wing  a  little  thought  to  me  ;— 
In  the  night,  or  in  the  day 
It  will  give  a  rest  to  me, 

I  have  praise  of  m  my  here, — • 

And  the  world  gives  me  renown  ; 

Let  it  go — give  me  one  tear 

'Twill  be  a  jewel  in  my  crown. 

What  care  I  for  earthly  fame  ? 

How  I  shrink  from  all  its  glare  !  — 
I  would  rather  that  my  name 

Would  be  shrined  in  some  one's  prayer. 

Many  hearts  are.  all  too  much  ; — 
Or  too  little  in  their  praise  ; — 

I  would  rather  feel  the  touch 

Of  one  prayer  that  thrills  all  days. 


A  SONG, 

WRITTEN    IN    AN    ALBUM. 

f 

g  URE  faced  Page  !  waiting  so  long 


To  welcome  my  Muse  and  me ; — 
KJ  Fold  to  thy  breast,  like  a  mother,  the  song 
^,        That  floats  from  my  spirit  to  thee/ 

And  Song  !  sound  soft  as  the  streamlet  sings 

And  sweet  as  the  Summer's  birds, 
And  pure  and  bright  and  white  be  the  wings 

That  will  waft  thee  into  words. 

Yea !    fly  as  the  sea-birds  fly  over  the  sea 

To  rest  on  the  far  off  beach, — 
And  breathe  forth  the  message  I  trust  to  thee, 

Tear-toned  on  the  shores  of  speech. 

But  ere  you  go,  dip  your  snowy  wing 

In  a  wave  of  my  spirit's  deep, — 
In  the  wave  that  is  purest, — then  haste  and  bring 

A  song  to  the  hearts  that  weep. 

Oh  !    bring  it, — and  sing  it, — its  notes  are  tears; 

Its  octaves,  the  octaves  of  grief ; 
Who  knows  but  its  tones  in  the  far  off  years 

May  bring  to  the  lone  heart  relief, 

Yea !    bring  it,— and  sing  it, — a  worded  moan 
That  sweeps  thro'  the  minors  of  woe, — - 

With  mystical  meanings  in  every  tone, 
And  sounds  like  the  sea's  lone  flow. 


196  A  SONG. 


And  the  thoughts  take  the  wings  of  words  and  float 

Out  of  my  spirit  to  thee, — 
But  the  song  dies  away  into  only  one  note 

And  sounds  but  in  only  one  key. 

And  the  Note  ! — 'tis  the  wail  of  the  weariest  wave 

That  sobs  on  the  lonliest  shore, — 
And  the  Key !  never  mind  !  it  comes  out  of  a  grave  ! 

And  the  Chord  ! — 'tis  a  sad  "  Nevermore." 

And  just  like  the  wavelet  that  moans  on  the  beach 

And  sighing,  sinks  back  to  the  sea, — 
So  my  song — it  just  touches  the  rude  shores  of  speech, 

And  its  music  melts  back  into  me. 

Yea  !  song  !  shrink  back  to  my  spirit's  lone  deep, 

Let  others  hear  only  thy  moan, — 
But  I — I  forever  shall  hear  the  grand  sweep 

Of  thy  mighty  and  tear-burdened  tone. 

Sweep  on  !  mighty  song — sound  down  in  my  heart 

As  a  storm  sounding  under  a  sea; — 
Not  a  sound  of  thy  music  shall  pass  into  art, 

Nor  a  note  of  it  float  Out  from  me. 


PARTING. 

AREWELL  !  that  word  has  broken  hearts 

And  blinded  eyes. with  tears, — 
Farewell !  one  stays — and  one  departs^ 
Between  them  roll  the  years. 

No  wonder  why  who  say  it  think— 

Farewell  !  he  may  fare  ill ; 
No  wonder  that  their  spirits  sink 

And  all  their  hopes  grow  chill. 

Good-bye  !  that  word  makes  faces  pale 

And  fills  the  soul  with  fears ; 
Good-bye !  two  words  that  wing  a  wail 

Which  flutters  down  the  years. 

No  wonder  they  who  say  it,  feel 

Such  pangs  for  those  who  go — 

Good-bye  !  they  wish  the  parted  weal, 
But  ah  !  they  may  meet  woe. 

Adieu  !  such  is  the  word  for  us, — • 

'Tis  more  than  word— 'tis  prayer, — 

They  do  not  part,  who  do  part  thus, 
For  God  is  everywhere. 


ST.  STEPHEN. 

1RST  champion  of  the  Crucified  ! 
plp^r    Who  when  the  fight  began 

Between  the  Church  and  worldly  pride 
So  nobly  fought — §o  nobly  died— 

The  foremost  in  the  van  ; — 
While  rallied  to  your  valiant  side 
The  red-robed  martyr-band  ; — 
To-night  with  glad  and  high  acclaim 
We  venerate  thy  saintly  name ; 
Accept  St.  Stephen  to  thy  praise 
And  glory — these  our  lowly  lays. 

The  chosen  twelve  with  chrismed  hand 

(  And  burning  zeal  within 
Led  forth  their  small  yet  fearless  band 
On  Pentecost — and  took  their  stand 

Against  the  world  and  sin — 
While  rang  aloud  the  battle-cry 
"  The  hated  Christians — all  must  die, 
As  died  the  Nazarine  before, 
The  God  they  believe  in  and  adore." 

Yet  Stephen's  heart  quailed  not  with  fear 

At  persecution's  cry, 
But  loving  as  he  did,  the  cause 
Of  Jesus — and  His  faith  and  laws 

Prepared  himself  to  die — 
He  faced  his  foes  with  burning  zeal, 


ST.  STEPHEN.  199 

Such  zeal  as  only  Saints  can  feel, 
He  told  them  how  the  Lord  had  stood 
Within  their  midst,  so  great  and  good, 
How  He  had  through  Judea  trod, 
How  wonders  marked  His  way — the  God — 
How  He  had  cured  the  blind — the  lame, 
The  deaf,  the  palsied  and  the  maimed, — 
And  how  with  awful,  wondrous  might 
He  raised  the  dead  to  life  and  light, — 
And  how  His  people  knew  Him  not, 
Had  eyes  and  still  had  seen  Him  not, 
Had  ears  and  still  had  heard  Him  not, 
Had  hearts  and  comprehended  not. 

Then  said  he  pointing  to  the  right 
Where  darkly  rose  Golgotha's  hight  — 
"  There  have  ye  slain  the  holy  One 
Your  Saviour  and  God's  only  Son." 

They  gnashed  their  teeth  in  raging  ire, 

Those  dark  and  cruel  men, 
They  vowed  a  vengeance  deep  and  dire 

Against  Saint  Stephen  then. 
Yet  he  was  calm  ; — a  radiant  light 

Around  his  forehead  gleamed, 
He  raised  his  eyes — a  wondrous  sight 
He  saw — so  grand  it  was  and  bright, — 
His  soul  was  filled  with  such  delight 

That  he  an  angel  seemed. 
Then  spoke  the  Saint — "  A  vision  grand 

Bursts  on  me  from  above, 
The  doors  of  heaven  open  stand, 
And  at  the  Father's  own  right  hand 

I  see  the  Lord  I  love" — 


200  ST.  STEPHEN. 

"  Away  with  him  " — the  rabble  cry, 

With  swelling  rage  and  hate, 
But  Stephen  still  gazed  on  the  sky, 
His  heart  was  with  his  Lord  on  high, 

He  heeded  not  his  fate. — 
The  gathering  crowd  in  fury  wild 

Rush  on  the  raptured  Saint, 
And  seize  their  victim  mute  and  mild, 
Who  like  his  Master  though  reviled 

Still  uttered  no  complaint. 

With  angry  shouts  they  rend  the  air ; 

They  drag  him  to  the  city  gate ; 
They  bind  his  hands  and  feet,  and  there, 
While  whispered  he  for  them  a  prayer, 

The  Marty  meets  his  fate. 

First  fearless  witness  to  his  belief 

In  Jesus  Crucified, 
The  red-robed  Martyrs'  noble  chief, 

Thus  for  his  Master  died. 
And  to  the  end  of  time  his  name 
Our  Holy  Church  shall  e'er  proclaim, 
And  with  a  mother's  pride  shall  tell 
How  her  great  proto-Mailyrs  fell. 


A  FLOWER'S  SONG. 

sTTAR  !  Star  !  why  dost  thou  shine 

Each  night  upon  my  brow  ? 
dost  thou  make  me  dream  the  dreams 
That  I  am  dreaming  now  ? 

Star  !  Star  !  thy  home  is  high — 

I  am  of  humble  birth  ; 
Thy  feet  walk  shining  o'er  the  sky, 

Mine,  only  on  the  earth. 

Star  !  Star  !  why  make  me  dream  ? 

My  dreams  are  all  untrue : 
And  why  is  Sorrow's  Dark  for  me 

And  Heaven's  Bright  for  you  ? 

Star  !  Star  !  oh  !  hide  thy  ray  ! 

And  take  it  off  my  face  ; 
Within  my  lowly  home  I  stay, — 

Thou, — in  thy  lofty  place. 

Star  !  Star  !  and  still  I  dream, — 

Along  thy  light  afar  ! 
I  seem  to  soar  until  I  seem 

To  be,  like  you,  a  star. 


THE  STAR'S  SONG. 

'LOWER  !  Flower  !  why  repine  ! 
"jR^F^         God  knows  each  creature's  place; 
He  hides  within  me  when  I  shine, — 
And  your  leaves  hide  his  face, 

And  you  are  near  as  I  to  Him, 

And  you  reveal  as  much 
Of  that  Eternal  soundless  hymn 

Man's  words  may  never  touch. 

God  sings  to  man  through  all  my  rays 
That  wreathe  the  brow  of  night, 

And  walks  with  me  thro'  all  my  ways — 
The  Everlasting  Light. 

Flower  !  Flower  !  why  repine  ? 

He  chose  on  lowly  earth 
And  not  in  Heaven  where  I  shine 

His  Bethlehem  and  birth. 

Flower  !  Flower  !  I  see  Him  pass 
Each  hour  of  night  and  day, 

Down  to  an  Altar  and  a  Mass 
Go  thou, — and  fade  away — 

Fade  away  upon  His  shrine  ! 

Thy  light  is  brighter  far 
Than  all  the  light  wherewith  I  shine 

In  Heaven, — as  a  star. 


DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWER, 

LOVE  my  mother — the  Wildwood,— 

I  sleep  upon  her  breast, 
A  day  or  two  of  childhood, — 
And  then  I  sink  to  rest. 

T  had  once  a  lovely  sister — • 

She  was  cradled  by  my  side. 

But  one  summer-day  I  missed  her, 
She  had  gone  to  deck  a  bride. 

And  I  had  another  sister, 

With  cheeks  all  bright  with  bloom  ; 
And  another  morn  I  missed  her, 

She  had  gone  to  wreathe  a  tomb. 

And  they  told  me  they  had  withered, 

On  the  bride's  brow  and  the  grave ;-~ 

Half-an-hour, — and  all  their  fragrance 
Died  away, — which  Heaven  gave. 

Two  sweet-faced  girls  came  walking 
Thro'  my  lonely  home  one  day, — • 

And  I  overheard  them  talking 
Of  an  Altar  on  their  way. 

They  were  culling  flowers  around  me— 

And  I  said  a  little  prayer 
To  go  with  them  ; — and  they  found  me,— 

And  upon  an  Altar  fair — 


2o4  NO  W. 


Where  the  Eucharist  was  lying 
On  its  mystical  death-bed, 

I  felt  myself  a-dying, 

While  the  Mass  was  being  said. 

But  I  lived  a  little  longer, 

And  I  prayed  there  all  the  day, 
Till  the  Evening-Benediction, 

When  my  poor  life  passed  away. 


NOW. 

& 

^OMETIMES  a  single  hour 

Rings  thro'  a  long  life-time, 
As  from  a  temple-tower 

There  often  falls  a  chime 
From  blessed  bells,— that  seems 
To  fold  in  Heaven's  dreams 
Our  spirits  round  a  shrine  ; 
Hath  such  an  hour  been  thine  ? 

Sometimes, — who  knoweth  why  ? 

One  minute  holds  a  power 

That  shadows  eve'ry  hour 
Dialed  in  life's  sky. 

A  cloud  that  is  a  speck 
When  seen  from  far  away 

May  be  a  storm, — and  wreck 
The  joys  of  every  day. 


NO  W.  205 


Sometimes, — it  seems  not  much, 

'Tis  scarcely  felt  at  all, — 
Grace  gives  a  gentle  touch 

To  hearts  for  once  and  all, — 
Which  in  the  spirit's  strife  • 

May  all  unnoticed  be. 
And  yet  it  rules  a  life  : 

Hath  this  e'er  come  to  thee  ? 

Sometimes  one  little  word 

Whispered  sweet  and  fleet, 
That  scarcely  can  be  heard 

Our  ears  will  sudden  meet. 
And  all  life's  hours  along 

That  whisper  may  vibrate, 
And  like  a  wizard's  song 

Decide  our  ev'ry  fate. 

Sometimes  a  sudden  look, 

That  falleth  from  some  face, 
Will  steal  into  each  nook 

Of  life, — and  leave  its  trace  ; 
To  haunt  us  to  the  last, 

And  sway  our  ev'ry  will 
Thro'  all  the  days  to  be 

For  goodness  or  for  ill ; 
Hath  this  e'er  come  to  thee  ? 

Sometimes  one  minute  folds 

The  hearts  of  all  the  years,— 
Just  like  the  heart  that  holds 

The  Infinite  in  tears  ; 
There  be  such  things  as  this  : 

Who  knoweth  why  or  how  ? 
A  life  of  woe  or  bliss 

Hangs  on  some  little  Now. 


SINGING-BIRD. 

N  the  valley  of  my  life 

Sings  a  "  Singing-Bird," 
And  its  voice  thro'  calm  and  strife 
Is  sweetly  heard. 

In  the  day  and  thro'  the  night 

Sound  the  notes, — 
And  its  song  thro'  Dark  and  Bright 

Ever  floats. 

Other  warblers  cease  to  sing 

And  their  voices  rest, — 
And  they  fold  their  weary  wing 

In  their  quiet  nest — 

But  my  Singing-Bird  still  sings 

Without  a  cease  ; 
And  each  song,  it  murmurs,  brings 

My  spirit  peace. 

"  Singing-Bird  !  "  oh  !  "  Singing-Bird  !" 

No  one  knows, 

When  your  holy  songs  are  heard, 
What  repose 

Fills  my  life  and  soothes  my  heart; 

But  I  fear 
The  day — thy  songs,  if  we  must  part, 

I'll  never  hear. 

But  "  Singing-Bird  !  "  ah  !  "  Singing-Bird !  " 

Should  this  e'er  be, 
The  dreams  of  all  thy  songs  I  heard 

Shall  sing  for  me. 


GOD  IN  THE  NIGHT. 


EEP  in  the  dark  I  hear  the  feet  of  God, — 
He  walks  the  world  ; — He  puts  His  holy  hand- 
On  ev'ry  sleeper, — only  puts  his  hand — ' 
^AVithin  it  benedictions  for  each  one  ; — 

Then  passes  on, — but  ah  !  whene'er  He  meets 
A  watcher  waitiag  for  Him, — He  is  glad. 
(Does  God,  like  man,  feel  lonely  in  the  dark  ?) 
He  rests  His  hand  upon  the  watcher's  brow, — 
But  more  than  that, — He  leaves  His  very  breath 
Upon  the  watcher's  soul, — and  more  than  this, 
He  stays  for  holy  hours  where  watchers  pray, — 
And  more  than  that — He  oftimes  lifts  the  veils 
That  hide  the  Visions  of  the  world  unseen. 
The  brightest  sanctities  of  highest  souls 
Have  blossomed  into  beauty  in  the  dark. 
How  extremes  meet !  the  very  darkest  crimes, 
That  blight  the  souls  of  men,  are  strangely  born 
Beneath  the  shadows  of  the  holy  night. 

Deep  in  the  dark  I  hear  His  holy  feet, — 
Around  Him  rustle  Archangelic  wings; — 
He  lingers  by  the  Temple  where  His  Christ 
Is  watching  in  His  Eucharistic  sleep  ; 
And  where  poor  hearts  in  sorrow  cannot  rest 
He  lingers  there  to  soothe  their  weariness. 
Where  mothers  weep  above  the  dying  child 
He  stays  to  bless  the  mothers'  bitter  tears, 
And  consecrates  the  cradle  of  her  child, 


208  GOD  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

Which  is  to  her  her  spirit's  awful  cross. 

He  shudders  past  the  haunts  of  sin, — yet  leaves 

E'er  there  a  mercy  for  the  wayward  hearts. 

Still  as  a  shadow  through  the  night  he  moves 

With  hands  all  full  of  blessings, — and  with  heart 

All  full  of  everlasting  love  ;  ah  me  ! 

How  God  does  love  this  poor  and  sinful  world ! 

The  stars  behold  Him  as  he  passes  on 

And  arch  His  path  of  mercy  with  their  rays. 

The  stars  are  grateful, — He  gave  them  their  light, 

And  now  they  give  Him  back  the  light  He  gave. 

The  shadows  tremble  in  adoring  awe ; 

They  feel  His  Presence  and  they  know  His  Face. 

The  shadows,  too,  are  grateful, — could  they  pray, 

How  they  would  flower  all  His  way  with  prayers  ! 

The  sleeping  trees  wake  up  from  all  their  dreams, — 

Were  their  leaves  lips,  ah  me !  how  they  would  sing 

A  grand  Magnificat  as  His  Mary  sang. 

The  lowly  grasses  and  the  fair-faced  flowers 

Watch  their  Creator  as  he  passes  on 

And  mourn  they  have  no  hearts  to  love  their  God, 

And  sigh  they  have  no  souls  to  be  beloved. 

Man, — only  man — the  image  of  his  God — 

Lets  God  pass  by  when  He  walks  forth  at  night. 


M 


HEN  I  am  dead, — and  all  will  soon  forget 

My  words, — and  face, — and  ways  ; 
>  I,  somehow,  think  I'll  walk  beside  thee  yet 
Adown  thy  after  days. — 

I  die  first, — and  you  will  see  my  grave, — 

But  child  !  you  must  not  cry ; — 
For  my  dead  hand  will  brighest  blessings  wave 

O'er  you  from  yonder  sky. — 

You  must  not  weep, — I  believe  I'd  hear  your  tears 

Tho'  sleeping  in  a  tomb, — 
My  rest  would  not  be  rest,  if  in  your  years 

There  floated  clouds  of  gloom. — 

For, — from  the  first, — your  soul  was  dear  to  mine 

And  dearer  it  became, — 
Until  my  soul,  in  every  prayer  would  twine 

Thy  name  ; — my  child  !  thy  name. 

You  came  to  me  in  girlhood  pure  and  fair, — 

And  in  your  soul — and  face — 
I  saw  a  likeness  to  another  there 

In  every  trace  and  grace. 

You  came  to  me  in  girlhood — and  ;  on  brought, — 

An  image  back  to  me  ; — 
No  matter  what, — or  whose, — I  often  sought 

Another's  soul  in  thee. — 


210  M   *    *    * 

Didst  ever  mark  how,  sometimes,  I  became — 

Gentle  though  I  be, — 
Gentler  than  ever  when  I  called  thy  name, 

Gentlest  to  thee  ? 

You  came  to  me  in  girlhood;  as  your  guide, — 
I  watched  your  spirit's  ways  ; — 

We  walked  God's  holy  valleys  side  by  side, — 
And  so  went  on  the  days. — 

And  so  went  on  the  years, — 'tis  five  and  more, — 

Your  soul  is  fairer  now  ; — 
A  light  as  of  a  sunset  on  a  shore 

Is  falling  on  my  brow, — 

Is  falling, — soon  to  fade, — when  I  am  Dead 
Think  this,  my  child  !  of  me  ; — 

I  never  said, — I  never  could  have  said 
Ungentle  words  to  thee. — 

I  treated  you, — as  I  would  treat  a  flower, — 
I  watched  you  with  such  care  ; — 

And  from  my  lips  God  heard  in  many  an  hour 
Your  name  in  many  a  prayer. 

I  watched  the  flower's  growth, — so  fair  it  grew,— 

On  not  a  leaf  a  stain  ; 
Your  soul  to  purest  thoughts  so  sweetly  true  ; 

I  did  not  watch  in  vain. — 

I  guide  you  still, — in  my  steps  still  you  tread ; — 
Towards  God  these  ways  are  set ; — 

T'will  soon  be  over — child  !  — when  I  am  dead 
I'll  watch — and  guide  you  yet. 


REUNITED. 

'Tis  better  far  that  I  should  go  before, — 

And  you  awhile  should  stay  ; — 
But  I  will  wait  upon  the  golden  shore 

To  meet  my  child  some  day. — 

When  I  am  dead  ;  in  some  lone  after  time, 

If  crosses  come  to  thee, — 
You'll  think — remembering  this  simple  rhyme — 

"  He  holds  a  crown  for  me." — 

I  guide  you  here, — I  go  before  you  there — 

But  here  or  there, — I  know 
Whether  the  roses,  or  the  thorny  crown  you  wear 

I'll  watch  where'er  you  go, — 

And  wait  until  you  come  ; — when  I  am  dead 
Think,  sometimes,  child !  of  this  ; 

You  must  not  weep  — follow  where  I  led, 
I  wait  for  you  in  bliss. 


REUNITED. 

WRITTEN  AFTER  THE  YELLOW  FEVER  EPIDEMIC  OF   1878. 

URER  than  thy  own  white  snow  ; 

Nobler  than  thy  mountains'  height ; 
t)  Deeper  than  the  ocean's  flow  ; 

Stronger  than  thy  own  proud  might ; 
Oh  !  Northland,  to  thy  sister  land, 
Was  late,  thy  mercy's  generous  deed  and  grand. 


REUNITED. 

Nigh  twice  ten  years,  the  sword  was  sheathed  : 

Its  mist  of  green,  o'er  battle  plain, 
For  nigh  two  decades  Spring  had  breathed  : 

And  yet  the  crimson  life-blood  stain, 
From  passive  swards,  had  never  paled  ; 
Nor  fields,  where  all  were  brave  and  some  had  failed. 

Between  the  Northland— Bride  of  snow, 
And  Southland — brightest  sun's  fair  bride, 

Swept,  deepening  ever,  in  its  flow, 
The  stormy  wake,  in  war's  dark  tide  : 

No  hand  might  clasp,  across  the  tears 

And  blood  and  anguish  of  four  deathless  years. 

When  Summer,  like  a  rose  in  bloom, 

Had  blossomed  from  the  bud  of  Spring ; 

Oh !  who  could  deem,  the  dews  of  doom, 
Upon  the  blushing  lips,  could  cling  ? 

And  who  could  believe,  its  fragrant  light, 

Would  e'er  be  freighted,  with  the  breath  of  blight. 

Yet  o'er  the  Southland,  crept  the  spell, 

That  e'en  from  out  its  brightness  spread  ; 
And  prostrate,  powerless,  she  fell ; 

-  Rachel-like,  amid  her  dead. 
Her  bravest,  fairest,  purest,  best, 
The  waiting  grave  would  welcome,  as  its  guest. 

The  Northland,  strong  in  love,  and  great, 

Forgot  the  stormy  days  of  strife  ; 
Forgot  that  souls,  with  dreams  of  hate, 

Or  unforgiveness,  e'er  were  rife. 
Forgotten  was  each  thought  and  hushed  ; 
Save,  she  was  generous  and  her  foe  was  crushed. 


as.  A.  213 

No  hand  might  clasp,  from  land  to  land- 
Yea — there  was  one  to  bridge  the  tide  ; 

For  at  the  touch  of  Mercy's  hand, 

The  North  and  South  stood  side  by  side : 

The  Bride  of  Snow,  the  Bride  of  Sun, 

In  Chanty's  espousals,  are  made  one. 

"  Thou  givest  back  my  sons  again," 

The  Southland  to  the  Northland  cries ; 
"  For  all  my  dead,  on  battle  plain, 

Thou  biddest  my  dying  now  uprise : 
I  still  my  sobs  ;  I  cease  my  tears  ; 
And  thou  hast  recompensed  my  anguished  years. 

"  Blessings  on  thine  every  wave, 

Blessings  on  thine  every  shore, 
Blessings  that  from  sorrows  save, 

Blessings  giving  more  and  more, 
For  all  thou  gavest  thy  sister  land, 
Oh  1  Northland,  in  thy  generous  deed  and  grand." 


C.  S.  A. 

we  weep  for  the  heroes  who  died  for  us  ? 

living  were  true  and  tried  for  us, 
And  dying  sleep  side  by  side  for  us  ; — 
The  Martyr-band 
That  hallowed  our  land 
With  the  blood  they  shed  in  a  tide  for  us. 


214  C.  S.  A. 

Ah  !  fearless  on  many  a  day  for  us 

They  stood  in  the  front  of  the  fray  for  us, 

And  held  the  foeman  at  bay  for  us, 

And  tears  should  fall 

Fore'er  o'er  all 
Who  fell  while  wearing  the  gray  for  us. 

How  many  a  glorious  name  for  us, 

How  many  a  story  of  fame  for  us, 

They  left, — would  it  not  be  a  blame  for  us, 

If  their  memories  part 

From  our  land  and  heart, 
And  a  wrong  to  them,  and  shame  for  us  ? 

No — no — no — they  were  brave  for  us, 

And  bright  were  the  lives  they  gave  for  us, — 

The  land  they  struggled  to  save  for  us 

Will  not  forget 

Its  warriors  yet 
Who  sleep  in  so  many  a  grave  for  us. 

On  many  and  many  a  plain  for  us 
Their  blood  poured  down  all  in  vain  for  us, 
Red,  rich  and  pure, — like  a  rain  for  us; 
They  bleed, — we  weep, 
We  live, — they  sleep — 
"  All  Lost  " — the  only  refrain  for  us. 

But  their  memories  e'er  shall  remain  for  us, 

And  their  names,  bright  names,  without  stain  for  us,- 

The  glory  they  won  shall  not  wane  for  us, 

In  legend  and  lay 

Our  heroes  in  gray 
Shall  forever  live  over  again  for  us. 


1 


THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 

lATURE  is  but  the  outward  vestibule 

Which  God  has  placed  before  an  unseen  shrine ; 
The  visible  is  but  a  fair,  bright  vale 
That  winds  around  the  great  Invisible ; 
The  finite, — it  is  nothing  but  a  smile 
That  flashes  from  the  face  of  Infinite, — 
A  smile  with  shadows  on  it, — and  'tis  sad 
Men  bask  beneath  the  smile  but  oft  forget 
The  loving  Face  that  very  smile  conceals. 
The  changeable  is  but  the  broidered  robe 
Enwrapped  about  the  great  Unchangeable ; 
The  audible  is  but  an  echo  faint 
Low  whispered  from  the  far  Inaudible  ; 
This  earth  is  but  an  humble  Acolyte 
A-kneeling  on  the  lowest  Altar-step 
Of  this  Creation's  Temple,  at  the  Mass 
Of  Supernature, — just  to  ring  the  bell 
At  Sanctus  !  Sanctus  !  Sanctus  !  while  the  world 
Prepares  its  heart  for  Consecration's  hour. 

Nature  is  but  the  ever-rustling  veil 

Which  God  is  wearing  like  the  Carmelite 

Who  hides  her  face  behind  her  virgin-veil 

To  keep  it  all  unseen  from  mortal  eyes, 

Yet  by  her  vigils  and  her  holy  prayers 

And  ceaseless  sacrifices  night  and  day 

Shields  souls  from  sin — and  many  hearts  from  harm. 


216  THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN.  • 

God  hides  in  Nature  as  a  thought  doth  hide 
In  humbly-sounding  words  ;  and  as  the  thought 
Beats  through  the  lowly  word  like  pulse  of  heart 
That  giveth  live  and  keepeth  life  alive, — 
So  God,  thro'  Nature  works  on  ev'ry  soul : 
For  Nature  is  His  word  so  strangely  writ 
In  Heav'n  in  all  the  letters  of  the  stars,— 
Beneath  the  stars  in  Alphabets  of  clouds, 
And  on  the  seas  in  syllables  of  waves, 
And  in  the  earth,  on  all  the  leaves  of  flowers, 
And  on  the  grasses  and  the  stately  trees, 
And  on  the  rivers  and  the  mournful  rocks 
The  word  is  clearly  written, — blest  are  they 
Who  read  the  word  aright, — and  understand. 

For  God  is  everywhere — and  he  doth  find 
In  every  atom  which  His  hand  hath  made  " 
A  shrine  to  hide  His  presence, — and  reveal 
His  Name,  Love,  Power,  to  those  who  kneel 
In  holy  faith  upon  this  bright  Below 
And  lift  their  eyes  thro'  all  this  mystery 
To  catch  the  vision  of  the  great  Beyond. 

Yea !  Nature  is  His  Shadow, — and  how  bright 
Must  that  face  be  which,  such  a  shadow,  casts? 
We  walk  within  it,  for  "  we  live  and  move 
And  have  our  being"  in  His  ev'rywhere. 
Why  is  God  shy?  why  doth  He  hide  Himself? 
The  tiniest  grain  of  sand  on  ocean's  shore 
En-Temples  Him, — the  fragrance  of  the  rose 
Folds  Him  around  as  blessed  incense  folds 
The  Altars  of  His  Christ :  yet  some  will  walk 
Along  the  Temple's  wondrous  vestibule 
And  look,  on  and  admire, — yet  enter  not 


PASSING  A  IV  AY. 

To  find  Witliin  the  Presence,—  and  the  light 
Which  sheds  its  rays  on  all  that  is  Without. 

And  Nature  is  His  voice  ;—  who  list  may  hear 
His  Name  low-murmured  every—  everywhere. 
In  song  of  birds,—  in  rustle  of  the  flowers 
In  swaying  of  the  trees,-  and  on  the  seas 
The  blue  lips  of  the  wavelets  tell  the  ships 
That  come  and  go,  His  holy,  holy  name. 
The  winds,  or  still  or  stormy,  breathe  the  same, 
And  some  have  ears  and  yet  they  will  not  hear 
The  soundless  voice  re-echoed  everywhere 
And  some  have  hearts  that  never  are  enthrilled 
By  all  the  grand  Hossannahs  Nature  sings. 
List  !  Sanctus  !  Sanctus  !  Sanctus  !  without  pause 
Sounds  sweetly  out  of  all  creation's  heart 
That  hearts  with  power  to  love  may  echo  back 
Their  Sanctus  !  Sanctus  !  Sanctus  !  to  the  Hymn. 


217 


PASSING  AWAY, 

IFE'S  Vesper-bells  are  ringing 

In  the  temple  of  my  heart, 
And  yon  sunset,  sure,  is  singing 

"  Nunc  Dimittis,"— - "  Now  depart," 
Ah  !  the  eve  is  golden-clouded 

But  to-morrow's  sun  shall  shine 
On  this  weary  body  shrouded  ; 
But  my  soul  doth  not  repine. 


1218  PASSING  A  WA  Y. 

"Let  me  see  the  sun  descending, 

I  will  see  his  light  no  more, 
For  my  life,  this  eve,  is  ending 

And  to-morrow  on  the  shore 
That  is  fair  and  white  and  golden 

I  will  meet  my  God  ;  and  ye 
Will  forget  not  all  the  olden 

Happy  hours  ye  spent  with  me. 

"  I  am  glad  that  I  am  going, — 

What  a  strange  and  sweet  delight 
Is  thro'  all  my  being  flowing 

When  I  know  that,  sure,  to-night 
I  will  pass  from  earth  and  meet  Him 

Whom  I  loved  thro'  all  the  years. 
Who  will  crown  me,  when  I  greet  Him 

And  will  kiss  away  my  tears. 

"  My  last  sun  !  haste  !  hurry  Westward  ! 

In  the  dark  of  this  to-night 
My  poor  soul  that  hastens  Rest-ward 

'  With  the  Lamb  '  will  find  the  light ; 
Death  is  coming— and  I  hear  him, 

Soft  and  stealthy  cometh  he, 
But  I  do  not  believe  I  fear  him 

God  is  now  so  close  to  me." 


Fell  the  daylight's  fading  glimmer 

On  a  face  so  wan,  and  white 
Brighter  was  his  soul  while  dimmer 

Grew  the  shadows  of  the  night ; 
And  he  died, — and  God  was  near  him 

I  knelt  by  him  to  forgive  ; 
And  I  sometimes  seem  to  hear  him 

Whisper -"Live  as  I  did -live." 


POETS. 

!  OETS  are  strange  ; — not  always  understood, 

By  many  is  their  gift 
Which  is  for  evil  or  for  mighty  good, — 
To  lower  or  to  lift. — 

Upon  their  spirits  there  hath  come  a  breath, — • 

Who  reads  their  verse 
Will  rise  to  higher  life,  or  taste  of  death 

In  blessing  or  in  curse. 

The  Poet  is  great  Nature's  own  High-priest, 

Ordained  from  very  birth  ; — 
To  keep  for  hearts  an  everlasting  feast ; — 

To  bless  or  curse  the  earth. 

They  cannot  help  but  sing, — they  know  not  why 
Their  thoughts  rush  into  song  ; — 

And  float  above  the  world  beneath  the  sky 
For  right  or  for  the  wrong. 

They  are  like  angels, — but  some  angels  fell 
While  some  did  keep  their  place ; 

Their  poems  are  the  gates  of  Heav'n  or  hell — • 
And  God's  or  Satan's  face 

Looks  thro'  their  ev'ry  word  into  your  face 

In  blessing  or  in  blight, 
And  leaves  upon  your  soul  a  grace  or  trace 

Of  sunlight  or  of  night. — 


.220  POETS. 

They  move  along  life's  uttermost  extremes, 

Unlike  all  other  men, — 
And  in  their  spirits'  depths  sleep  strangest  dreams 

Like  shadows  in  a  glen. 

They  all  are  dreamers  ; — in  the  day  and  night 

Ever  across  their  souls 
The  wondrous  mystery  of  the  dark  or  bright 

In  mystic  rhythm  rolls. 

They  live  within  themselves, — they  may  not  tell 

What  lieth  deepest  there  ; 
Within  their  breast,  a  Heaven  or  a  hell, 

Joy  or  tormenting  care.  9 

They  are  the  loneliest  men  that  walk  men's  ways, 

No  matter  what  they  seem, 
The  stars  and  sunlight  of  their  nights  and  days 

Move  over  them  in  dream. 

They  breathe  it  forth, — their  very  spirit's  breath 

To  bless  the  world,  or  blight, 
To  bring  to  men  a  higher  life, — or  death  ; 

To  give  them  light, — or  night. 

The  words  of  some  command  the  world's  acclaim 

And  never  pass  away, 
While  others'  words  receive  no  palm  from  fame 

And  live  but  for  a  day. 

ik 

But  live  or  die, — their  words  leave  their  impress 

Fore'er  or  for  an  hour, 
And  mark  men's  souls, — some  more  and  some  the  less 

With  good's  or  evil's  power. 


A  LEGEND. 

v,... 

3lv¥ 

'  walked  alone  beside  the  lonely  sea, 

<|jj|iavo'vrhe  slanting  sunbeams  fell  upon  his  face, 
•^      His  shadow  fluttered  on  the  pure  white  sands 
Like  the  weary  wing  of  a  soundless  prayer. 
And  he  was, — oh  ?  so  beautiful  and  fair, — 
Brown  sandals  on  his  feet, — his  face  downcast 
As  if  he  loved  the  earth  more  than  the  Heav'ns. 
His  face  looked  like  his  mother's, — only  her's 
Had  not  those  strange  serenities  and  stirs 
That  paled  or  flushed  his  olive  cheeks  and  brow. 
He  wore  the  seamless  robe  his  mother  made; 
And  as  he  gathered  it  about  his  breast 
The  wavelets  heard  a  sweet  and  gentle  voice 
Murmur  "Oh  !  my  mother;" — the  white  sands  felt 
The  touch  of  tender  tears  he  wept  the  while. 
He  walked  beside  the  sea ; — He  took  his  sandals  off 
To  bathe  his  weary  feet  in  the  pure  cool  wave, 
For  he  had  walked  across  the  desert  sands 
All  day  long, — and  as  he  bathed  his  feet 
He  murmured  to  himself, — "  Three  years  !  three  years  ! 
And  then  poor  feet  the  cruel  nails  will  come 
And  make  you  bleed  : — but  ah  !  that  blood  shall  lave 
All  weary  feet  on  all  their  thorny  ways." 
"  Three  years  !  three  years  !  "  He  murmured  still  again,, 
"  Ah  !  would  it  were  to-morrow, — but  a  will, 
My  Father's  will  biddeth  me  bide  that  time." 
A  little  fisher-boy  came  up  the  shore 


222  A  LEGEND. 

And  saw  Him, — and,  nor  bold,  nor  shy 
Approached, — but  when  he  saw  the  weary  face 
Said  mournfully  to  Him. — "You  look  a-tired." 
He  placed  His  hand  upon  the  boy's  brown  brow 
Caressingly  and  blessingly — and  said 

"  I  am  so  tired  to  wait."     The  boy  spake  not. 
Sudden,  a  sea-bird  driven  by  a  storm 
That  had  been  sweeping  on  the  farther  shore 
Came  fluttering  towards  Him  and  panting  fell 
At  His  feet  and  died  ;  and  then  the  boy  said — 

"  Poor  little  bird  " — in  such  a  piteous  tone, 
He  took  the  bird  and  laid  it  in  His  hand 
And  breathed  on  it, — when  to  his  amaze 
The  little  fisher-boy  beheld  the  bird 
Flutter  a  moment  and  then  fly  aloft — 
Its  little  life  returned, — and  then  he  gazed 
With  look  intensest  on  the  wondrous  face 
(Ah !  it  was  beautiful  and  fair) — and  said 

"  Thou  art  so  sweet  I  wish  Thou  wert  my  God." 
He  leaned  down  towards  the  boy  and  softly  said 

"  I  am  thy  Christ." — The  day  they  followed  Him 
With  cross  upon  His  shoulders  to  His  death, — 
Within  the  shadow  of  a  shelt'ring  rock 
That  little  boy  knelt  down, — and  there  adored 
While  others  cursed  the  Thorn-crowned  Crucified. 


WHAT  AILS  THE  WORLD? 


*  W$  ^ 


HAT  ails  the  world  ?— the  Poet  cried — 

"  And  why  does  Death  walk  everywhere  ? 
§>          And  why  do  tears  fall  anywhere  ? 
)N  And  skies  have  clouds,  and  souls  have  care  ?' 

Thus  the  Poet  sang,  and  sighed. 

For  he  would  fain  have  all  things  glad, 
All  lives  happy,  all  hearts  bright — 
Not  a  day  would  end  in  night, 
Not  a  wrong  would  vex  a  right — 

And  so  he  sang — and  he  was  sad. 

Thro'  his  very  grandest  rhymes 

Moved  a  mournful  monotone — 

Like  a  shadow  Eastward  thrown 

From  a  sunset — like  a  moan 
Tangled  in  a  Joy-bell's  chimes. 

"  What  ails  the  world  ?  " — he  sang  and  asked — 
And  asked  and  sang — but  all  in  vain, — 
No  answer  came  to  any  strain, 
And  no  reply  to  his  refrain — 
The  mystery  moved  'round  him  masked. 

"  What  ails  the  world  ?  " — an  echo  came — 

"Ails  the  world  ?"     The  minstrel  bands, 

With  famous  or  forgotten  hands, 
Lift  up  their  lyres  in  all  the  lands, 
And  chant  alike,  and  ask  the  same 


224  WHAT  AILS  THE   WORLD. 

From  him  whose  soul  first  soared  in  song — 
A  thousand-thousand  years  away, 
To  him  who  sang  but  yesterday, 
In  dying  or  in  deathless  lay — 
"What  ails  the  world?"  comes  from  the  throng. 

They  fain  would  sing  the  world  to  rest — 
And  so  they  chaunt  in  countless  keys 
As  many  as  the  waves  of  seas, 
And  as  the  breathings  of  the  breeze, 

Yet  even  when  they  sing  their  best — 

When  o'er  the  list'ning  world  there  floats 
Such  melody  as  'raptures  men — 
When  all  look  up  entranced — -.and  when 
The  song  of  fame  floats  forth — e'en  then 

A  discord  creepeth  through  the  notes. 

Their  sweetest  harps  have  broken  strings — 
Their  grandest  accords. have  their  jars — 
Like  shadows  on  the  light  of  stars — 
And  somehow,  something  ever  mars 

The  songs  the  greatest  minstrel  sings. 

And  so  each  song  is  incomplete, 

And  not  a  rhyme  can  ever  round 
Into  the  chords  of  perfect  sound, 
The  tones  of  thought  that  e'er  surround 

The  ways  walked  by  the  Poet's  feet. 

"  What  ails  the  world  ?"  he  sings  and  sighs- 
No  answer  cometh  to  his  cry — 
He  asks  the  earth  and  asks  the  sky — 
The  echoes  of  his  song  pass  by 
Unanswered, — and  the  Poet  dies. 


THOUGHTS. 

:    sound  of  name,  and  touch  of  hand 
p>c#     Thro'  ears  that  hear,  and  eyes  that  see, 
'    We  know  each  other  in  this  land — 
How  little  must  that  knowledge  be? 

Our  souls  are  all  the  time  alone, 

No  spirit  can  another  reach  ; 
They  hide  away  in  realms  unknown 

Like  waves  that  never  touch  a  beach. 

We  never  know  each  other  here, 
No  soul  can  here  another  see, — 

To  know,  we  need  a  light  as  clear 
As  that  which  fills  Eternity. 

For  here  we  walk  by  human  light, 
But  there  the  light  of  God  is  ours ; — 

Each  day,  on  earth,  is  but  a  night 
Heaven  alone  hath  clear-faced  hours. 

I  call  you  thus, — you  call  me  thus, — 

Our  mortal  is  the  very  bar 
That  parts  forever  each  of  us 

As  skies,  on  high,  part  star  from  star. 

A  name  is  nothing  but  a  name 

For  that  which,  else,  would  nameless  be ; — 
Until  our  souls,  in  rapture,  claim 

Full  knowledge  in  Eternity. 


LINES. 

HE  world  is  sweet  and  fair  and  .bright, 

And  joy  aboundeth  everywhere, 
V    The  glorious  stars  crown  every  night 

And  thro'  the  Dark  of  ev'ry  care 
Above  us  shineth  Heaven's  light. 

If  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave 
We  reckon  all  our  days  and  hours 

We,  sure,  will  find  they  give  and  gave 

Much  less  of  thorns  and  more  of  flowers  ; 

And  tho'  some  tears  must  ever  lave 

The  path  we  tread, — upon  them  all 

The  light  of  smiles  forever  lies 
As  o'er  the  rains,  from  clouds  that  fall 

The  sun  shines  sweeter  in  the  skies. 
Life  holdeth  more  of  sweet  than  gall 

For  ev'ry  one  : — no  matter  who, — 
Or  what  their  lot, — or  high  or  low; 

All  hearts  have  clouds, — but  Heaven's  blue 
Wraps  robes  of  bright  around  each  woe  ;— 

And  this  is  truest  of  the  true, 

That  joy  is  stronger  here  than  grief, 
Fills  more  of  life  far  more  of  years, 

And  makes  the  reign  of  sorrow  brief ; 
Gives  more  of  smiles  for  less  of  tears. 

Joy  is  life's  tree,' — Grief  but  its  leaf. 


THE    PILGRIM. 

A    CHRISTMAS    LEGEND    FOR    CHILDREN. 

HE  shades  of  night  were  brooding 
O'er  the  sea,  the  earth,  the  sky  ; 
The  passing  winds  were  wailing 

In  a  low  unearthly  sigh  ; 
The  darkness  gathered  deeper, 

For  no  starry  light  was  shed, 
And  silence  reigned  unbroken. 

As  the  silence  of  the  dead. 

The  wintry  clouds  were  hanging 

From  the  starless  sky  so  low, 
While  'neath  them  earth  lay  folded 

In  a  winding  shroud  of  snow. 
'Twas  cold— 'twas  dark — 'twas  dreary— 

And  the  blast  that  swept  along 
The  mountains,  hoarsely  murmured 

A  fierce,  discordant  song. 

And  mortal  men  were  resting 

From  the  turmoil  of  the  day, 
And  broken  hearts  were  dreaming 

Of  the  friends  long  passed  away, 
And  saintly  men  were  keeping 

Their  vigils  through  the  night, 
While  angel  spirits  hovered  near 

Around  their  lonely  light. 


228.  THE  PILGRIM. 

And  wicked  men  were  sinning 

In  the  midnight  banquet  halls, 
Forgetful  of  that  sentence  traced 

On  proud  Belshazzar's  walls. 
On  that  night  so  dark  and  dismal 

Unillumed  by  faintest  ray, 
Might  be  seen  the  lonely  Pilgrim, 

Wending  on  his  darksome  way. 

Slow  his  steps,  for  he  was  weary, 

And  betimes  he  paused  to  rest  ; 
Then  he  rose,  and,  pressing  onward, 

Murmured  lowly:  "I  must  haste." 
In  his  hand  he  held  a  chaplet, 

And  his  lips  were  moved  in  prayer, 
For  the  darkness  and  the  silence 

Seemed  to  whisper,  God  was  there. 

On  the  lonely  Pilgrim  journeyed, 

Nought  disturbed  him  on  his  way, 
And  his  prayers  he  softly  murmured, 

As  the  midnight  stole  away. 
Hark !  amid  the  stillness  rises, 

On  his  ears  a  distant  strain, 
Softly  sounding — now  it  ceases — 

Sweetly  now  it  comes  again. 

In  his  path  he  paused  to  wonder, 

While  he  listened  to  the  sound  : 
On  it  came,  so  sweet,  so  pensive, 

'Mid  the  blast  that  howled  around. 
And  the  restless  winds  seemed  soothed 

By  that  music,  gentle,  mild, 
And  they  slept,  as  when  a  mother 

Rocks  to  rest  her  cradled  child. 


THE  PILGRIM.  229 

Strange  and  sweet  the  calm  that  followed 

Stealing  through  the  midnight  air  ; 
Strange  and  sweet  the  sounds  that  floated 

Like  an  angel  breathing  there. 
From  the  sky  the  clouds  were  drifting 

Swiftly  wone  by  one  away, 
And  the  sinless  stars  were  shedding 

Here  and  there  a  silver  ray. 

"Why  this  change  ?"  the  pilgrim  whispered — 
"  Whence  that  music  ?  whence  its  power  ? 
Earthly  sounds  are  not  so  lovely  ! 

Angels  love  the  midnight  hour  ! " 
Bending  o'er  his  staff,  he  wondered, 
Loath  to  leave  that  sacred  place  : 
"  I  must  hasten,"  said  he,  sadly — 

On  he  pressed  with  quickened  pace. 

Just  before  him  rose  a  mountain, 

Dark  its  outline,  steep  its  side — 
Down  its  slopes  that  midnight  music 

Seemed  so  soothingly  to  glide, 
"  I  will  find  it,"  said  the  pilgrim, 

"  Though  this  mountain  I  must  scale," 
Scarcely  said, — when  on  his  vision 

Shone  a  distant  light,  and  pale. 

Glad  he  was  ;  and  now  he  hastened — 

Brighter,  brighter  grew  the  ray — 
Stronger,  stronger,  swelled  the  music, 

As  he  struggled  on  his  way, 
Soon  he  gained  the  mountain  summit, 

Lo  !  a  church  bursts  on  his  view  : 
From  the  church  that  light  was  flowing, 
And  that  gentle  music,  too. 


230  THE  PILGRIM. 

Near  he  came  — its  door  stood  open — 

Still  he  stood  in  awe  and  fear  ; 
"  Shall  I  enter  spot  so  holy  ? 

Am  I  unforbidden  here  ? 
I  will  enter — something  bids  me — 

Saintly  men  are  praying  here  ; 
Vigils  sacred  they  are  keeping, 

'Tis  their  matin  song  I  hear." 

Softly,  noiselessly,  he  glided 

Through  the  portal — on  his  sight 
Shone  a  vision,  bright,  strange,  thrilling, 

Down  he  knelt — 'twas  Christmas  night- 
Down,  in  deepest  adoration, 

Knelt  the  lonely  Pilgrim  there  ; 
Joy  unearthly,  rapture  holy, 

Blended  with  his  whispered  prayer. 

Wrapped  his  senses  were  in  wonder, 

On  his  soul  an  awe  profound, 
As  the  vision  burst  upon  him, 

'Mid  sweet  light  and  sweeter  sound. 
"  Is  it  real  ?  is  it  earthly  ? 

Is  it  all  a  fleeting  dream  ? 
Hark!  those  choral  voices  ringing, 

Lo !    those  forms  like  angels  seem." 

On  his  view  there  rose  an  altar, 

Glittering  'mid  a  thousand  beams, 
Flowing  from  the  burning  tapers 

In  bright,  sparkling,  silver  streams. 
From  unnumbered  crystal  vases, 

Rose  and  bloomed  the  fairest  flowers, 
Shedding  'round  their  balmy  fragrance, 

'Mid  the  lights  in  sweetest  showers. 


THE  PILGRIM.  231 

Rich  and  gorgeous  was  the  altar, 

Decked  it  was  in  purest  white. 
Mortal  hands  had  not  arrayed  it 

Thus,  upon  that  Christmas  night. 
Amid  its  lights  and  lovely  flowers, 

The  little  Tabernacle  stood— 
Around  it  all  was  rich  and  golden, 

It  alone  was  poor  and  rude. 

H>_rk  !  Venite  Adoremus  ! 

Ivound  the  golden  altar  sounds — 
See  that  band  of  angels  kneeling 

Prostrate,  with  their  sparkling  crowns  ! 
And  the  Pilgrim  looked  and  listened, 

And  he  saw  the  angels  there, 
And  their  snow-white  wings  were  folded, 

As  they  bent  in  silent  prayer. 

Twelve  they  were — bright  rays  of  glory 

Round  their  brows  effulgent  shone  ; 
But  a  wreath  of  nobler  beauty 

Seemed  to  grace  and  circle  one  ; 
And  he,  beauteous,  rose  and  opened 

Wide  the  Tabernacle  door : 
Hark  !  "  Venite  Adoremus  " 

Rises — bending,  they  adore. 

Lo  !  a  sound  of  censers  swinging  ! 

Clouds  of  incense  weave  around 
The  altar  rich  a  silver  mantle, 

As  the  angels'  hymns  resound. 
List  !  Venite  Adoremus 

Swells  aloud  in  stronger  strains, 
And  the  angels  swing  the  censers, 

And  they  prostrate,  bend  again. 


232  THE  PILGRIM. 

Rising  now,  with  voice  of  rapture, 

Bursts  aloud,  in  thrilling  tone, 
"  Gloria  in  Excelsis  Deo" 

Round  the  sacramental  throne. 
Oh  !  'twas  sweet,  'twas  sweet  and  charming 

As  the  notes  triumphant  flowed  ! 
Oh  !  'twas  sweet,  while  wreaths  of  incense 

Curled,  and  countless  tapers  glowed. 

Oh  !  'twas  grand  !  that  hymn  of  glory 

Earthly  sounds  cannot  compare  ; 
Oh  !  'twas  grand  !  it  breath'd  of  Heaven, 

As  the  angels  sung  it  there. 
Ravished  by  the  strains  ecstatic, 

Raptured  by  the  vision  grand, 
Gazed  the  Pilgrim  on  the  altar, 

Gazed  upon  the  angel  band. 

All  was  hushed  !  the  floating  echoes 

Of  the  hymn  had  died  away  ; 
Vanished  were  the  clouds  of  incense, 

And  the  censers  ceased  to  sway. 
Lo  !  their  wings  are  gently  waving, 

And  the  angels  softly  rise, 
Bending  towards  the  Tabernacle, 

Worship  beaming  from  their  eyes. 

One  last,  lowly  genuflection  ! 

From  their  brows  love  burning  shone — 
Ah,  they're  going,  they've  departed, 

All  but  one,  the  brightest  one. 
"Why  remains  he?"  thought  the  Pilgrim, 

Ah  !  he  rises  beauteously — 
"  Listen  !  "  and  the  angel  murmured 
Sweetly  :  "  Pilgrim,  hail  to  thee  !  " 


THE  PILGRIM.  233 

"  Come  unto  the  golden  altar, 

I'm  an  angel — banish  fear — 
Come,  unite  in  adoration 

With  me,  for  our  God  is  here. 
Come  !  ihy  Jesus  here  reposes, 

Come  !  He'll  bless  thy  mortal  sight — 
Come  !  adore  the  Infant  Saviour 

With  me — for  'tis  Christmas  night." 

Now  approached  the  Pilgrim,  trembling, 

Now  beside  the  angel  bent, 
And  the  deepest,  blissful  gladness, 

With  his  fervent  worship  blent. 
"  Pilgrim,"  said  the  spirit,  softly, 

"  Thou  hast  seen  bright  angels  here,. 
And  hast  heard  our  sacred  anthems, 

Filled  with  rapture,  filled  with  fear. 

"  We  are  twelve — 'twas  we  who  chanted 

First  the  Saviour's  lowly  birth, 
We  who  brought  the  joyful  tidings 

Of  His  coming,  to  the  earth ; 
We  who  sung  unto  the  Shepherds, 

Watching  on  the  mountain  hight, 
That  the  Word  was  made  Incarnate,. 

For  them  on  that  blessed  night. 

"And  since  then  we  love  to  linger, 

On  that  festal  night  on  earth, 
And  we  leave  our  thrones  of  glory 

Here  to  keep  the  Saviour's  birth. 
Happy  mortals  !  happy  mortals  ! 

To-night  the  angels  would  be  men; 
And  they  leave  their  thrones  in  Heaven 

For  the  Crib  of  Bethlehem." 


234  THE  PILGRIM. 

And  the  angel,  led  the  Pilgrim 

To  the  Tabernacle  door  ; 
Lo  !  an  infant  there  was  sleeping, 

And  the  angel  said,  "  Adore  ! 
He  is  sleeping  yet  He  watches, 

See  that  beam  of  love  divine, 
Pilgrim  !  pay  your  worship  holy 

To  your  infant  God  and  mine." 

And  the  spirit  slowly,  slowly, 

Closed  the  Tabernacle  door, 
While  the  Pilgrim  lowly,  lowly, 

Bent  in  rapture  to  adore. 
"  Pilgrim,"  spoke  the  angel  sweetly, 

"I  must  bid  thee  my  adieu  ; 
Love  !  oh,  love  the  Infant  Jesus  !"- 

And  he  vanished  from  his  view. 


All  was  silent, — silent — silent  — 
Faded  was  the  vision  bright — 

But  the  Pilgrim  long  remembered, 
In  his  heart,  that  Christmas  night. 


THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS: 

WO  little  children  played  among  the  flowers, 
Their  mothers  were  of  kin,  tho'  far  apart  ; 
The  children's  ages  were  the  very  same 
E'en  to  an  hour ; — and  Ethel  was  her  name, — 
A  fair,  sweet  girl,  with  great,  brown,  wond'ring  eyes 
That  seemed  to  listen  just  as  if  they  held 
The  gift  of  hearing  with  the  power  of  sight. 
Six  summers  slept  upon  her  low  white  brow 
And  dreamed  amid  the  roses  of  her  cheeks. 
Her  voice  was  sweetly  low  ; — and  when  she  spoke 
Her  words  were  music  ;  and  her  laughter  rang. 
So  like  an  Altar-bell  that,  had  you  heard 
Its  silvery  sound  a-ringing, — you  would  think 
Of  kneeling  down  and  worshiping  the  Pure. 

They  played  among  the  roses, — it  was  May, — 
And  "hide  and  seek,"  and  "seek  and  hide,"  all  eve 
They  played  together  till  the  sun  went  down. 
Earth  held  no  happier  hearts  than  theirs  that  day : 
And  tired  at  last  she  plucked  a  crimson  rose 
And  gave  to  him,  her  playmate,  cousin-kin  ; — 
And  he  went  thro'  the  garden  till  he  found 
The  whitest  rose  of  all  the  roses  there, 
And  placed  it  in  her  long,  brown,  waving  hair. 
I  give  you  red, — and  you, — you  give  me  white  : 
AVhat  is  the  meaning?"— said  she, — while  a  smile 
As  radiant  as  the  light  of  angel's  wings, 
Swept  bright  across  her  face  ; — the  while  her  eyes 


336         THEIR  STOR  Y  R  UNNETH  THUS. 

Seemed  infinite  purities  half  asleep 
In  sweetest  pearls  : — and  he  did  make  reply 
"  Sweet  Ethel !  White  dies  first, — you  know,  the  snow, 
(And  it  is  not  as  white  as  thy  pure  face) 
Melts  soon  away, — but  roses  red  as  mine 
Will  bloom  when  all  the  snow  hath  passed  away." 

She  sighed  a  little  sigh, — then  laughed  again, — 
And  hand  in  hand  they  walked  the  winding  ways 
Of  that  fair  garden  till  they  reached  her  home. 
A  good-bye  and  a  kiss, — and  he  was  gone. 

She  leaned  her  head  upon  her  mother's  breast, 
And  ere  she  fell  asleep  she,  sighing,  called, 
"  Does  White  die  first  ?  my  mother  !  and  does  Red 
Live  longer?" — and  her  mother  wondered  much 
At  such  strange  speech.     She  fell  asleep 
With  murmurs  on  her  lips  of  Red  and  White. 
Those  children  loved  as  only  children  can, 
With  nothing  in  their  love  save  their  whole  selves, 
When  in  their  cradles  they  had  been  betroth'd. 
They  knew  it  in  a  manner  vague  and  dim, — 
Unconscious  yet  of  what  betrothal  meant. 

The  boy — she  called  him  Merlin — a  love-name, — 
(And  he — he  called  her  always  Ullainee, 
No  matter  why  ;) — the  boy  was  full  of  moods. 
Upon  his  soul  and  face  the  Dark  and  Bright 
Were  strangely  intermingled.     Hours  would  pass 
Rippling  with  his  bright  prattle, —  and  then,  hours 
Would  come  and  go  ;  and  never  hear  a  word 
Fall  from  his  lips, — and  never  see  a  smile 
Upon  his  face.     He  was  so  like  a  cloud 
With  ever-changeful  hues,  as  she  was  like 
A  golden  sunbeam  shining  on  its  face. 


THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS.         237" 
*****         *         *         * 

Ten  years  passed  on.     They  parted  and  they  met 
Not  often  in  each  year, — yet  as  they  grew 
In  years,  a  consciousness  unto  them  came 
Of  human  love. 

But  it  was  sweet  and  pure. 
There  was  no  passion  in  it.     Reverence 
Like  Guardian-Angel  watched  o'er  Innocence. 
One  night  in  mid  of  May  their  faces  met 
As  pure  as  all  the  stars  that  gazed  on  them. 
They  met  to  part  from  themselves  and  the  world. 
Their  hearts  just  touched  to  separate  and  bleed, 
Their  eyes  were  linked  in  look,  while  saddest  tears 
Fell  down  like  rain  upon  the  cheeks  of  each  : 
They  were  to  meet  no  more. 

Their  hands  were  clasped. 
To  tear  the  clasp  in  twain  ;  and  all  the  stars 
Looked  proudly  down  on  them,  while  shadows  knelt 
Or  seemed  to  kneel  around  them  with  the  awe 
Evoked  from  any  heart  by  sacrifice. 
And  in  the  heart  of  that  last,  parting  hour 
Eternity  was  beating.     And  he  said, 
"  We  part  to  go  to  Calvary  and  to  God, — 
This  is  our  Garden  of  Gethsemane; 
And  here  we  bow  our  heads  and  breathe  His  prayer 
Whose  heart  was  bleeding,  while  the  angels  heard : 
Not  My  will,  Father !   but  Thine  Own  be  done." 

Raptures  meet  agonies  in  such  Heart-hours  ; 
Gladness  doth  often  fling  her  bright,  warm  arms 
Around  the  cold,  white  neck  of  grief  ; — and  thus 
The  while  they  parted — sorrow  swept  their  hearts 
Like  a  great,  dark  stormy  sea, — but  sudden 
A  joy,  like  sunshine, — did  it  come  from  God  ? 


238         THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS. 

Flung  over  every  wave  that  swept  o'er  them 
A  more  than  golden  glory. 

Merlin  said : 

"  Our  loves  must  soar  aloft  to  spheres  Divine, 
The  Human  satisfies  nor  you  nor  me, 
(No  human  love  shall  ever  satisfy, — 
Or  ever  did, — the  hearts  that  lean  on  it ;) 
You  sigh  for  something  higher  as  do  I, 
So  let  our  spirits  be  espoused  in  God, 
And  let  our  wedlock  be  as  soul  to  soul ; 
And  Prayer  shall  be  the  golden  Marriage-ring 
And  God  will  bless  us  both." 

She  sweetly  said  : 

"  Your  words  are  echoes  of  my  own  soul's  thoughts; 
Let  God's  own  heart  be  our  own  holy  home, 
And  let  us  live  as  only  angels  live  ; 
And  let  us  love  as  our  own  angels  love. 
'Tis  hard  to  part, — but  it  is  better  so, 
God's  will  is  ours,  and, — Merlin  !  let  us  go." 

And  then  she  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break,— 

Perhaps  it  did  ; — an  awful  minute  passed, 

Long  as  an  age  and  briefer  than  a  flash 

Of  lightning  in  the  skies.     No  word  was  said  ; 

Only  a  look  which  never  was  forgot. 

Between  them  fell  the  shadows  of  the  night. 

Their  faces  went  away  into  the  dark, 
And  never  met  again  ;  and  yet  their  souls 
Were  twined  together  in  the  heart  of  Christ. 

And  Ethel  went  from  earthland  long  ago, 
But  Merlin  stays  still  hanging  on  his  cross. 
He  would  not  move  a  nail  that  nails  him  there, 
He  would  not  pluck  a  thorn  that  crowns  him  there. 


THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS.         239 

He  hung  himself  upon  the  blessed  cress 
With  Ethel ; — she  has  gone  to  wear  the  crown 
That  wreathes  the  brows  of  virgins  who  have  kept 
Their  bodies  with  their  souls  from  earthly  taint. 

And  years  and  years,  and  weary  years  passed  on 
Into  the  Past ; — one  Autumn  afternoon, 
When  flowers  were  in  their  agony  of  death, 
And  winds  sang  "  De  Profundis  "  over  them, 
And  skies  were  sad  with  shadows, — he  did  walk 
Where,  in  a  resting-place  as  calm  as  sweet, — 
The  dead  were  lying  down  ; — the  Autumn  sun 
Was  half  way  down  the  West, — the  hour  was  three, 
The  holiest  hour  of  all  the  Twenty-four, — 
For  Jesus  leaned  His  head  on  it — and  died 
He  walked  alone  amid  the  virgins'  graves, 
Where  virgins  slept, — a  convent  stood  near  by, 
And  from  the  solitary  cells  of  nuns 
Unto  the  cells  of  death  the  way  was  short. 

Low,  simple  stones  and  white  watched  o'er  each  grave, 

While  in  the  hollows  'tween  them  sweet  flowers  grew 

Entwining  grave  with  grave.     He  read  the  names 

Engraven  on  the  stones, — and  "  Rest  in  Peace." 

Was  written  'neath  them  all — and  o'er  each  name 

A  Cross  was  graven  on  the  lowly  stone. 

He  passed  each  grave  with  reverential  awe, 

As  if  he  passed  an  Altar,  where  the  Host 

Had  left  a  memory  of  its  sacrifice. 

And  o'er  the  buried  virgins'  virgin  dust 

He  walked  as  prayerfully  as  tho'  he  trod 

The  holy  floor  of  fair  Loretto's  shrine. 

He  passed  from  grave  to  grave, — and  read  the  names 

Of  those  whose  own  pure  lips  had  changed  the  names 


24o         THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS. 

By  which  this*  world  had  known  them,  into  names 

Of  sacrifice  known  only  to  their  God  : 

Veiling  their  faces  they  had  veiled  their  names. 

The  very  ones  who  played  with  them  as  girls, 

Had  they  passed  there  would  know  no  more  than  he, 

Or  any  stranger,  where  their  playmates  slept. 

And  then  he  wondered  all  about  their  lives,  their  hearts, 

Their  thoughts,  their  feelings,  and  their  dreams, 

Their  joys  and  sorrows,  and  their  smiles  and  tears. 

He  wondered  at  the  stories  that  were  hid 

Forever  down  within  those  simple  graves. 

In  a  lone  corner  of  that  resting-place 
Uprose  a  low,  white  slab  that  marked  a  grave — 
Apart  from  all  the  others  : — long,  sad  grass 
Drooped  o'er  the  little  mound,  and  mantled  it 
With  veil  of  purest  green, — around  the  slab 
The  whitest  of  white  roses  'twined  their  arms, 
Roses  cold  as  the  snows  and  pure  as  songs 
Of  angels, — and  the  pale  leaflets  and  thorns 
Hid  e'en  the  very  name  of  her  who  slept 
Beneath.     He  walked  on  to  the  grave,  but  when 
He  reached  its  side,  a  spell  fell  on  his  heart, 
So  suddenly, — he  knew  not  why, — and  tears 
Went  up  into  his  eyes  and  trickled  down 
Upon  the  grass  ; — he  was  as  strangely  moved 
As  if  he  met  a  long-gone  face  he  loved. 
I  believe  he  prayed.     He  lifted  then  the  leaves 
That  hid  the  name  ; — but  as  he  did,  the  thorns 
Did  pierce  his  hand  ; — and  lo  !  amazed  he  read 
The  very  word, — the  very,  very  name 
He  gave  the  girl  in  golden  days  before, — 

"ULLAINEE." 
He  sat  beside  that  lonely  grave,  for  long, 


THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS.         241 

He  took  its  grasses  in  his  trembling  band, — 
He  toyed  with  them,  and  wet  them  with  his  tears, — 
He  read  the  name  again  and  still  again, 
He  thought  a  thousand  thoughts, -and  then  he  thought 
It  all  might  be  a  dream,— then  rubbed  his  eyes 
And  read  the  name  again  to  be  more  sure, 
Then  wondered  and  then  wept,— then  asked  himself : 
"  What  means  it  all  ?     Can  this  be  Ethel's  grave  ? 
I  dreamed  her  soul  had  fled. 
Was  she  the'  white  dove  that  I  saw  in  dream 
Fly  o'er  the  sleeping  sea  so  long  ago  ?  " 
The  convent-bell 

Rang  sweet  upon  the  breeze,  and  answered  him 
His  question.     And  he  rose  and  went  his  way 
Unto  the  convent  gate  ;  long  shadows  marked 
One  hour  before  the  sunset ;  and  the  birds 
Were  singing  Vespers  in  the  convent  trees. 
As  silent  as  a  star-gleam  came  a  nun 
In  answer  to  his  summons  at  the  gate  ; 
Her  face  was  like  the  picture  of  a  saint, 
Or  like  an  angel's  smile  ; — her  downcast  eyes 
Were  like  a  half-closed  Tabernacle,  where 
God's  presence  glowed, — her  lips  were  pale  and  worn 
By  ceaseless  prayer, — and  when  she  sweetly  spoke 
And  bade  him  enter, — 'twas  in  such  a  tone 
As  only  voices  own  which  day  and  night 
Sing  hymns  to  God. 

She  locked  the  massive  gate. 
He  followed  her  along  a  flower-fringed  walk 
That,  gently  rising,  led  up  to  the  Home 
Of  Virgin-Hearts.     The  very  flowers  that  bloomed 
Within  the  place,  in  beds  of  sacred  shapes,— 
(For  they  had  fashioned  them  with  holy  care, 


242          THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS. 

Into  all  holy  forms, —  a  Chalice,  a  Cross, 

And  Sacred  Hearts, — and  many  saintly  names, 

That  when  their  eyes  would  fall  upon  the  flowers 

Their  souls  might  feast  upon  some  mystic  sign),— 

Were  fairer  far  within  the  convent  walls, 

And  purer  in  their  fragrance  and  their  bloom 

Than  all  their  sisters  in  the  outer  world. 

He  went  into  a  wide  and  humble  room, 
The  floor  was  painted  ; — and  upon  the  walls 
In  humble  frames  most  holy  paintings  hung. 
Jesus  and  Mary  and  many  an  olden  Saint 
Were  there.     And  she,  the  veil-clad  sister,  spoke : 
"  I'll  call  the  Mother,"— and  she  bowed  and  went. 

He  waited  in  the  wide  and  humble  room, — 
The  only  room  in  that  unworldly  place 

.> 

This  world  could  enter, — and  the  pictures  looked 

Upon  his  face  and  down  into  his  soul 

And  strangely  stirred  him.     On  the  mantel  stood 

A  crucifix,  the  figured  Christ  of  which 

Did  seem  to  suffer ;  and  he  rose  to  look 

More  nearly  on  it ;  but  he  shrank  in  awe 

When  he  beheld  a  something  in  its  face 

Like  his  own  face. 

But  more  amazed  he  grew,  when,  at  the  foot 
Of  that  strange  crucifix  he  read  the  name, — 

"ULLAINEE." 

A  whirl  of  thought  swept  o'er  his  startled  soul, — 
When  to  the  door  he  heard  a  footstep  come, 
And  then  a  voice  ; — the  Mother  of  the  nuns 
Had  entered,  — and  in  calmest  tone  began  : 
"  Forgive,  kind  sir,  my  stay ; — our  Matin-song 
Had  not  yet  ended  when  you  came  ; — our  rule 


THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS.         243 

Forbids  our  leaving  choir  ; — this,  my  excuse." 
She  bent  her  head, — the  rustle  of  her  veil 
W.as  like  the  trembling  of  an  angel's  wing, 
Her  voice's  tone  as  sweet.     She  turned  to  him 
And  seemed  to  ask  him  with  her  still,  calm  look 
What  brought  him  there, — and  waited  his  reply. 
"  I  am  a  stranger,  Sister,  hither  come," 
He  said,  "  upon  an  errand  still  more  strange. 
But  thou  wilt  pardon  me  and  bid  me  go, 
If  what  I  crave,  you  cannot  rightly  grant, — 
I  would  not  dare  intrude,  nor  claim  your  time 
Save  that  a  friendship,  deep  as  death,  and  strong 
As  life,  has  brought  me  to  this  holy  place." 

He  paused.     She  looked  at  him  an  instant, — bent 
Her  lustrous  eyes  upon  the  floor, — but  gave 
Him  no  reply, — save  that  her  very  look 
Encouraged  him  to  speak, — and  he  went  on  : 
He  told  her  Ethel's  story  from  the  first, 
He  told  her  of  the  day  amid  the  flowers, 
When  they  were  only  six  sweet  summers  old ; 
He  told  her  of  the  night  when  all  the  flowers, 
A-listning,  heard  the  words  of  sacrifice, 
He  told  her  all ; — then  said  :  "  I  saw  a  stone 
In  yonder  graveyard  where  your  sisters  sleep, 
And  writ  on  it,  all  hid  by  roses  white, 
I  saw  a  name  I  never  ought  forget." 

She  wore  a  startled  look, — but  soon  repressed 
The  wonder  that  had  come  into  her  face. 
"  Whose  name  ?"  she  calmly  spoke.     But  when  he  said  : 

"ULLAINEE," 
She  forward  bent  her  face  and  pierced  his  own 


244         THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS. 

With  look  intensest ; — and  he  thought  he  heard 
The  trembling  of  her  veil, — as  if  the  brow 
It  mantled,  throbbed  with  many  thrilling  thoughts. 
But  quickly  rose  she,  and  in  hurried  tone 
Spoke  thus  :  "  'Tis  hour  of  sunset, — 'tis  our  rule 
To  close  the  gates  to  all  till  morrow's  morn. 
Return  to-morrow, — then,  if  .so  God  wills, 
I'll  see  you." 

He  gave  many  thanks,  passed  out 
From  that  unworldly  place  into  the  world. 
Straight  to  the  lonely  graveyard  went  his  steps, 
Swift  to  the  "  White-Rose-Grave,"  his  heart :  he  knelt 
Upon  its  grass  and  prayed  that  God  might  will 
The  mystery's  solution  ; — then  he  took, — 
Where  it  was  drooping  on  the  slab,  a  rose, — 
The  whiteness  of  whose  leaves  was  like  the  foam 
Of  summer  waves  upon  a  summer  sea. 

Then  thro'  the  night  he  went 

And  reached  his  room  where,  weary  of  his  thoughts, 
Sleep  came,  and  coming  found  the  dew  of  tears 
Undried  within  his  eyes, — and  flung  her  veil 
Around  him.     Then  he  dreamt  a  strange,  weird  dream. 
A  rock,  dark  waves,  white  roses  and  a  grave, 
And  cloistered  flowers,  and  cloistered  nuns, — and  tears 
That  shone  like  jewels  on  a  diadem, — 
And  two  great  angels  with  such  shining  wings ; 
All  these  and  more  were,  in  most  curious  way, 
Blended  in  one  dream  or  many  dreams.     Then 
He  woke  wearier  in  his  mind.     Then  slept 
Again  and  had  another  dream. 
His  dream  ran  thus, — 
(He  told  me  all  of  it  many  years  ago, 


THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS.         245 

But  I  forgot  the  most.     I  remember  this)  : 
A  dove  whiter  than  whitness'  very  self 
Fluttered  thro'  his  sleep  in  vision  or  dream, 
Bearing  in  its  flight  a  spotless  rose.     It 
Flew  away  across  great,  long  distances, 
Thro'  forests  where  the  trees  were  all  in-dream, 
And  over  wastes  where  silences  held  reign, 
And  down  pure  valleys,  till  it  reached  a  shore, 
By  which  blushed  a  sea  in  the  ev'ning  sun  ; 
The  dove  rested  there  awhile  ; — rose  again 
And  flew  across  the  sea  into  the  sun. 
And  then  from  near  or  far  (he  could  not  say) 
Came  sound  as  faint  as  echo's  own  echo,-— 
A  low  sweet  hymn  it  seemed, — and  now 
And  then  he  heard,  or  else  he  thought  he  heard, 
As  if  it  were  the  hymn's  refrain, — the  words, 
"White  dies  first!"  "White  dies  first."— 

The  sun  had  passed  his  noon  and  Westward  sloped  ;— 
He  hurried  to  the  cloister  and  was  told 
The  mother  waited  him.     He  entered  in 
Into  the  wide  and  pictured  room, — and  there 
The  Mother  sat, — and  gave  him  welcome  twice. 

"  I  prayed,  last  night,"  she  spoke,  "to  know  God's  will, 
I  prayed  to  Holy  Mary  and  the  Saints 
That  they  might  pray  for  me,— and  I  might  know 
My  conduct  in  the  matter  ; — now,  kind  sir, 
What  would'st  thou  ?     Tell  thy  errand."     He  replied  : 

"  It  was  not  idle  curiosity 

That  brought  me  hither  or  that  prompts  my  lips 
To  ask  the  story  of  the  White-Rose-Grave, — 
To  seek  the  story  of  the  sleeper  there, 
Whose  name  I  knew  so  long  and  far  away. 
Who  was  she  pray?     Dost  deem  it  right  to  tell  ?" 


246         THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS. 

There  was  a  pause  before  the  answer  came, — 
As  if  there  was  a  comfort  in  her  heart. 
There  was  a  tremor  in  her  voice  when  she 
Unclosed  two  palest  lips, — and  spoke  in  tone 
Of  whisper  more  than  word. 

"  She  was  a  child 

Of  lofty  gift  and  grace,  who  fills  that  grave, 
And  who  has  filled  it  long, — and  yet  it  seems 
To  me  but  one  short  hour  ago,  we  laid 
Her  body  there.     Her  mem'ry  clings  around 
Our  hearts,  our  cloister, — fresh  and  fair  and  sweet. 
We  often  look  for  her  in  places  where 
Her  face  was  wont  to  be  ; — among  the  flow'rs, 
In  chapel, — underneath  those  trees.     Long  years 
Have  passed  and  mouldered  her  pure  face :  and  yet 
It  seems  to  hover  here  and  haunt  us  all. 
I  can  not  tell  you  all.     It  is  enough 
To  see  one  ray  of  light — for  us  to  judge 
The  glory  of  the  sun ; — it  is  enough 
To  catch  one  glimpse  of  heaven's  blue, 
For  us  to  know  the  beauty  of  the  sky. 
It  is  enough  to  tell  a  little  part 
Of  her  most  holy  life  that  you  may  know 
The  hidden  grace  and  splendor  of  the  whole. 
"  Nay, — nay."     He  interrupted  her — "all!  all! 
Thou'lt  tell  me  all,  kind  mother." 

•  She  went  on, 

Unheeding  his  abruptness. 

"  One  sweet  day,— 

A  feast  of  Holy  Virgin, — in  the  month 
Of  May — at  early  morn,  e're  yet  the  dew 
Had  passed  from  off  the  flowers  and  grass, — e're  yet 
Our  nuns  had  come  from  holy  Mass, — there  came 


THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS.         247 

With  summons  quick  unto  our  Convent  gate 

A  fair  young  girl.     Her  feet  were  wet  with  dew, — 

Another  dew  was  moist  within  her  eyes, — 

Her  large,  brown,  wond'ring  eyes.     She  asked  for  me, 

And  as  I  went  she  rushed  into  my  arms 

Like  weary  bird  into  the  leaf-roofed  branch 

That  sheltered  it  from  storm.     She  sobbed  and  sobbed, 

Until  I  thought  her  very  soul  would  rush 

From  her  frail  body,  in  a  sob,  to  God 

I  let  her  sob  her  sorrow  all  away. 

My  words  were  waiting  for  a  calm.     Her  sobs 

Sank  into  sighs, — and  they  too  sank  and  died 

In  faintest  breath.     I  bore  her  to  a  seat 

In  this  same  room, — and  gently  spoke  to  her. 

And  held  her  hand  in  mine, — and  soothed  her 

With  words  of  sympathy,  until  she  seemed 

As  tranquil  as  myself. 

And  then  I  asked ; 
What  brought  thee  hither,  child,  and  what  wilt  thou  ? 

1  Mother  ! '  she  said  ; — *  Wilt  let  me  wear  the  veil  ? 
Wilt  let  me  serve  my  God  as  e'en  you  serve 
Him  in  this  cloistered  place  ?     I  pray  to  be, — 
Unworthy  tho'  I  be, — to  be  his  spouse. 
Nay,  Mother — say  not  nay — 'twill  break  a  heart 
Already  broken  ;  " — and  she  looked  on  me 
With  those  brown,  wond'ring  eyes  which  pleaded  more, 
More  strongly  and  more  sadly  than  her  lips 
That  I  might  grant  her  sudden,  strange  request. 

1  Hast  thou  a  mother  ? '  questioned  I.     'I  had,' 
She  said — '  but  heaven  has  her  now  ; — and  thou 
Wilt  be  my  mother, — and  the  orphan  girl 
Will  make  her  life  her  thanks.' 


243         THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS. 

'Thy  father,  child?' 

'  Ere  I  was  cradled  he  was  in  his  grave.' 
'  And  hast  nor  sister  nor  brother  ?'     '  No,' — she  said, 
'  God  gave  my  mother  only  me  ; — one  year 
This  very  day  he  parted  us.'     'Poor  child  ' — 
I  murmured, — '  Nay — kind  sister  ' — she  replied  : 
'  I  have  much  wealth, — they  left  me  ample  means, — • 
I  have  true  friends  who  love  me  and  protect. 
I  was  a  minor  until  yesterday ; 
But  yesterday  all  guardianship  did  cease, 
And  I  am  mistress  of  myself  and  all 
My  worldly  means, — and  Sister,  they  are  thine 
If  thou  but  take  myself, — nay — don't  refuse.' 
'Nay — nay — my  child?'  I  said, — 'The  only  wealth 
We  wish  for  is  the  wealth  of  soul — of  grace. 
Not  all  your  gold  could  unlock  yonder  gate, 
Or  buy  a  single  thread  of  virgin's  veil. 
Not  all  the  coins  in  coffers  of  a  king 
Could  bribe  an  entrance  here  for  any  one. 
God's  voice  alone  can  claim  a  cell, — a  veil, 
For  any  one  he  sends. 

Who  sent  you  here, 

My  child?     Thyself?     Or  did  some  holy  one 
Direct  thy  steps  ?     Or  else  some  sudden  grief  ? 
Or  mayhap,  disappointment  ?     Or  perhaps, 
A  sickly  weariness  of  that  bright  world 
Hath  cloyed  thy  spirit  ?     Tell  me,  which  it  is.' 
'  Neither ' — she  quickly,  almost  proudly  spoke. 
'  Who  sent  you  then  ? ' 

'  A  youthful  Christ '—  she  said- 
'  Who,  had  he  lived  in  those  far  days  of  Christ 
Would  have  been  His  belov'd  Disciple,  sure, 
Would  have  been  His  own  gentle  John  ;  and  would 


THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS.         249- 

Have  leaned,  on  Thursday  night,  upon  his  breast 

And  stood,  on  Friday  eve,  beneath  His  cross 

To  take  His  Mother  from  Him  when  He  died. 

He  sent  me  here, — he  said  the  word  last  night 

In  my  own  garden, — this  the  word  he  said : 

Oh  !  had  you  heard  him  whisper  :  '  Ethel  dear  r 

Your  heart  was  born  with  veil  of  virgin  on, — 

I  hear  it  rustle  every  time  we  meet, 

In  all  your  words  and  smiles ; — and  when  you  weep- 

I  hear  it  rustle  more.     Go— wear  your  veil,— 

And  outward  be  what  inwardly  thou  art, 

And  hast  been  from  the  first.     And,  Ethel,  list  I 

My  heart  was  bcrn  with  priestly  vestments  on. 

And  at  Dream-Altars  I  have  ofttimes  stood, 

And  said  such  sweet  Dream-Masses  in  my  sleep, — 

And  when  I  lifted  up  a  white  Dream-Host, 

A  silver  Dream-Bell  rang, — and  angels  knelt, 

Or  seemed  to  kneel  in  worship.     Ethel,  say — 

Thou  would'st  not  take  the  vestments  from  my  heart 

No  more  than  I  would  tear  the  veil  from  thine. 

My  vested  and  thy  veiled  heart  part  to-night 

To  climb  our  Calvary  and  to  meet  in  God, — 

And  this, — fair  Ethel  !  is  Gethsemane, — 

And  He  is  here,  Who,  in  that  other,  bled, — 

And  they  are  here  who  came  to  comfort  Him, — 

His  angels  and  our  own  ; — and  His  great  prayer, 

Ethel,  is  ours  to-night ; — let's  say  it  then  : 

Father  !  thy  will  be  done  !     Go  find  your  veil 

And  I  my  vestments,' — He  did  send  me  here.' ' 

"  She  paused, — a  few  stray  tears  had  dropped  upon 
Her  closing  words  and  softened  them  to  sighs. 
I  listened,  inward  moved, — but  outward,  calm  and  cold, 
To  the  girl's  strange  story.     Then  smiling  said : 


250         THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS. 

'  I  see  it  is  a  love-tale  after  all, 
With  much  of  folly  and  some  of  fact  in  it, — 
It  is  a  heart-affair,  and  in  such  things 
There's  little  logic,  and  there's  less  of  sense. 
You  brought  your  heart,  dear  child,  but  left  your  head 
Outside  the  gates, — nay !  go,  and  find  the  head 
You  lost  last  night, — and  then,  I  am  quite  sure, 
You'll  not  be  anxious  to  confine  your  heart 
Within  this  cloistered  place.' 

She  seemed  to  wince 

Beneath  my  words,  one  moment ; — then  replied  : 
'  If  e'en  a  wounded  heart  did  bring  me  here, 
Djost  thou  do,  Sister,  well,  to  wound  it  more  ? 
If  merely  warmth  of  feelings  urged  me  here 
Dost  thou  do  well  to  chill  them  into  ice  ? 
And  were  I  disappointed  in  yon  world 
.Should  that  debar  me  from  a  purer  place? 
You  say  it  is  a  love  tale — so  it  is  ; — 
The  vase  was  human — but  the  flower  divine, 
And  if  I  break  the  vase  with  my  own  hands 
Will  you  forbid  that  I  should  humbly  ask 
The  heart  of  God  to  be  my  lily's  vase  ? 
I'd  trusi  my  lily  to  no  heart  on  earth 
.Save  his,  who  yester-night,  did  send  me  here 
To  dip  it  in  the  very  blood  of  Christ, 
And  plant  it  here.' 

"And  then  she  sobbed  outright 
A  long,  deep  sob. 

I  gently  said  to  her: 

*  Nay — child — I  spoke  to  test  thee, — do  not  weep. 
If  thou  art  called  of  God,  thou  yet  shalt  come 
And  find  e'en  here  a  home.     But  God  is  slow 
In  all  His  works  and  ways,  and  slower  still 


THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS.         251 

When  He  would  deck  a  bride  to  grace  His  Court. 
Go,  no\v,  and  in  one  year ; — if  thou  dost  come 
Thy  veil  and  cell  shall  be  prepared  for  thee — 
'Nay — urge  me  not — it  is  our  holy  rule, — 
A  year  of  trial !  I  must  to  choir,  and  thou 
Into  the  world  to  watch  and  wait  and  pray 
Until  the  Bridegroom  comes.' 

She  rose  and  went 
Without  a  word. 

And  twelvemonth  after  came, 
True  to  the  very  day  and  hour  ; — and  said  : 

*  Wilt  keep  thy  promise  made  one  year  ago  ? 
Where  is  my  cell — and  where  my  virgin's  veil  ?' 
Wilt  try  me  more  ?     Wilt  send  me  back  again  ? 
I  came  once  with  my  wealth  and  was  refused, 
And  now  I  come  as  poor  as  Holy  Christ 

Who  had  no  place  to  rest  his  weary  head, — 
My  wealth  is  gone  ;  I  offered  it  to  him 
Who  sent  me  here  ; — he  sent  me  speedy  word ; — 
'  Give  all  unto  the  poor  in  quiet  way 
And  hide  the  giving— ere  you  give  yourself 
To  God  ! '     Wilt  take  me  now  for  my  own  sake  ? 
I  bring  my  soul, — 'tis  little  worth  I  ween, — 
And  yet  it  cost  sweet  Christ  a  priceless  price/ 

*  My  child,'  I  said,  '  thrice  welcome  ; — enter  here  ; 
A  few  short  days  of  silence  and  of 'prayer 

And  thou  shalt  be  the  Holy  Bridegroom's  Bride/ 

Her  novice  days  went  on ;  much  sickness  fell 

Upon  her.     Oft  she  lay  for  weary  weeks 

In  awful  agonies, — and  no  one  heard 

A  murmur  from  her  lips.     She  oft  would  smile 


252         THEIR  STOR  Y  R  UNNETH  THUS, 

A  gunny,  playful  smile  that  she  might  hide 
Her  sufferings  from  us  all.     When  she  was  well, 
She  was  the  first  to  meet  the  hour  of  prayer, — 
The  last  to  leave  it, —  and  they  named  her  well, 
The  Angel  of  the  Cloister.     Once  I  heard 
The  Father  of  our  souls  say,  when  she  passed, — 

'  Beneath  that  veil  of  sacrificial  black 
She  wears  the  white  robe  of  her  innocence.' 
And  we, — we  believed  it.     There  are  Sisters  here 
Of  three  scoje  years  of  service,  who  would  say : 

'  Within  our  mein'ry  never  moved  a  veil 
That  hid  so  saintly  and  so  pure  a  heart.' 
And  we,  we  felt  it, — and  we  loved  her  so, 
We  treated  her  as  angel  and  as  child. 
I  never  heard  her  speak  about  the  past, 
I  never  heard  her  mention  e'en  a  name 
Of  any  in  the  world.     She  little  spake. 
She  seemed  to  have  rapt  moments — then  she  grew 
Absent-minded, — and  would  come  and  ask  m-e 
To  walk  alone  and  say  her  Rosary 
Beneath  the  trees.     She  had  a  voice  divine, 
And  when  she  sang  for  us,  in  truth  it  seemed 
The  very  heart  of  song  was  breaking  on  her  lips. 
The  dower  of  her  mind,  as  of  her  heart, 
Was  of  the  richest,  and  she  mastered  art 
By  instinct  more  than  study.     Her  weak  hands 
Moved  ceaselessly  amid  the  beautiful. 
There  is  a  picture  hanging  in  our  choir 
She  painted.     I  remember  well  the  morn 
She  came  to  me  and  told  me  she  had  dreampt 
A  dream ;  then  asked  me  would  I  let  her  paint 
Her  dream.     I  gave  permission.     Weeks  and  weeks 
Went  by, — and  ev'ry  spare  hour  of  the  day 


THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS.         25-5 

She  kept  her  cell  all  busy  with  her  work. 
At  last  'twas  finished  and  she  brought  it  forth. 
A  picture  my  poor  words  may  not  portray, 
But  you  must  gaze  on  it  with  your  own  eyes 
And  drink  its  magic  and  its  meanings  in ; 
I'll  show  it  thee,  kind  sir,  before  you  go. 

In  every  May  for  two  whole  days  she  kept 

Her  cell.     We  humored  her  in  that,  but  when 

The  days  had  passed, — and  she  came  forth  again, 

Her  face  was  tender  as  a  lily's  leaf 

With  God's  smile  on  it, — and  for  days  and  dayi 

Thereafter, — she  would  scarcely  ope  her  lips 

Save  when  in  prayer, — and  then  her  every  look 

Was  rapt  as  if  her  soul  did  hold  with  God 

Strange  converse.     And  who  knows  ?   mayhap  she  difli 

I  half  forgot. — On  yonder  mantelpiece 
You  see  that  wondrous  crucifix, — one  year 
She  spent  on  it,  and  begged  to  put  beneath 
That  most  mysterious  word  :  *  Ullainee." — 

At  last  the  Cloister's  Angel  disappeared, 
Her  face  was  missed  at  choir,— her  voice  was  missed, 
Her  words  were  missed  where  every  day  we  met 
In  recreation's  hour.     And  those  who  passed 
The  Angel's  cell  would  lightly  tread — and  breathe 
A  prayer  that  Death  might  pass  the  Angel  by 
And  let  her  longer  stay,  for  she  lay  ill, 
Her  frail,  pure  life  was  ebbing  fast  away. 

Ah  !  many  were  the  orisons  that  rose 

From  all  our  hearts  that  God  might  spare  her  stiH. 

At  Benediction  and  at  holy  Mass 

Our  hands  were  lifted,  and  strong  pleadings  went 


B54         THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS. 

To  Heaven  for  her  ;  we  did  love  her  so, 

Perhaps  too  much  we  loved  her  ;  and  perhaps 

Our  love  was  far  too  human.     Slow  and  slow 

She  faded  like  a  flower.     And  slow  and  slow 

Her  pale  cheeks  whitened  more.     And  slow  and  slow 

Her  large,  brown  wondering  eyes  sank  deep  and  dim. 

Hope  died  in  all  our  faces — but  on  her's 

Another  and  a  different  Hope  did  shine, 

And  from  her  wasted  lips  sweet  prayers  arose 

That  made  her  watchers  weep.     Fast  came  the  end. 

Never  such  silence  o'er  the  Cloister  hung  : 

We  walked  more  softly,  and  whene'er  we  spoke 

Our  voices  fell  to  whispers — lest  a  sound 

Might  jar  upon  her  ear.     The  Sisters  watched 

In  turns  beside  her  couch.     To  each  she  gave 

A  gentle  word, — a  smile, — a  thankful  look. 

At  times  her  mind  did  wander  ;  no  wild  words 

Escaped  her  lips ;  she  seemed  to  float  away 

To  far-gone  days  and  live  again  in  scenes 

Whose  hours  were  bright  and  happy.     In  her  sleep 

She  ofttimes  spoke  low,  gentle,  holy  words 

About  her  mother.     Arid  sometimes  she  sang 

The  fragments  of  sweet,  olden  songs, — and  when 

She  woke  again,  she  timidly  would  ask 

If  she  had  spoken  in  her  sleep — and  what 

She  said, — as  if,  indeed,  her  heart  did  fear 

That  sleep  might  open  there  some  long-closed  gate 

She  would  keep  locked.     And  softly  as  a  cloud, 

A  golden  cloud  upon  a  summer's  day, 

Floats  from  the  heart  of  land  out  o'er  the  sea — 

So  her  sweet  life  was  passing.     One  bright  eve, 

The  fourteenth  day  of  August,  when  the  sun 

Was  wrapping,  like  a  king,  a  purple  cloud 


THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS.         255 

Around  him, — on  descending  day's  bright  throne, 

She  sent  for  me  and  bade  me  come  in  haste. 

I  went  into  her  cell.     There  was  a  light 

Upon  her  face,  unearthly  ;  and  it  shone 

Like  gleam  of  star  upon  a  dying  rose. 

I  sat  beside  her  couch, — and  took  her  hand 

In  mine, —  a  fair,  frail  hand  that  scarcely  seem'd 

Of  flesh, — so  wasted,  white  and  wan  it  was. 

Her  great,  brown,  wond'ring  eyes  had  sunk  away 

Deep  in  their  sockets, — and  their  light  shone  dim 

As  tapers  dying  on  an  Altar.     Soft 

As  a  dream  of  beauty  on  me  fell,  lo\v, 

Last  words. 

'Mother  !  the  tide  is  ebbing  fast ; 
But  e're  it  leaves  this  shore  to  cross  the  deep 
And  seek  another,  calmer — I  would  say 
A  few  last  words, — and,  mother,  I  would  ask 
One  favor  more,  which  thou  wilt  not  refuse. 
Thou  wert  a  mother  to  the  orphan-girl, 
Thou  gav'st  her  heart  a  home, — her  love,  a  vase, — 
Her  weariness,  a  rest, — her  sacrifice,  a  shrine, — 
And  thou  clid'st  love  me,  Mother,  as  she  loved 
Whom  I  shall  meet  to-morrow,  far  away, — 
But  no, — it  is  not  far, — that  other  Heav'n 
Touches  this, — Mother  !   I  have  felt  its  touch. 
And  now  I  feel  its  clasp  upon  my  soul. 
I'm  going  from  this  heaven  into  that, 
To-morrow,  Mother.     Yes — I  dreamt  it  all. 
It  was  the  sunset  of  Our  Lady's  feast. 
My  soul  passed  upwards  thro'  the  golden  clouds 
To  sing  the  second  Vespers  of  tbv*  day 
With  all  the  Angels.      Mother— 'ere  I  go— 
Thou'lt  listen.  Mother  sweet,  to  my  last  words. 


256         THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS. 

Which,  like  all  last  words,  tell  what  e'er  was  first 
In  life  or  tenderest  in  heart.     I  came 
Unto  my  convent  cell  and  virgin  veil, 
Sent  by  a  spirit  that  had  touched  mine  own 
As  wings  of  angels  touch, — to  fly  apart 
Upon  their  missions — till  they  meet  again 
In  Heaven,  heart  to  heart,  wing  to  wing. 
The  'Angel  of  the  Cloister,'  you  called  me, 
Unworthy  sure  of  such  a  beauteous  name,^ 
My  mission's  over — and  your  Angel  goes 
To-morrow  home.     This  earthly  part  which  stays 
You'll  lay  away  within  a  simple  grave, — 
But  Mother,  on  its  slab  thou'lt  grave  this  name, 
Ullainee;'  (She  spelt  the  letters  out). 
Nor  ask  me  why, — tho'  if  thou  wilt,  I'll  tell ; 
It  is  my  soul-name,  given  long  ago 
By  one  who  found  it  in  some  Eastern  book 
Or  dreamt  it  in  a  dream  and  gave  it  me, 
Nor  ever  told  the  meaning  of  the  name ; — 
And,  Mother,  should  he  ever  come  and  read 
That  name  upon  my  grave,  and  come  to  thee 
And  ask  thee  tidings  of  Ullainee, 
Thou'lt  tell  him  all, — and  watch  him  if.  he  weeps, — 
Show  him  the  crucifix  my  poor  hands  carved, — 
Show  him  the  picture  in  the  chapel  choir, — 
And  watch  him  if  he  weeps, — and  then 
There  are  three  humble  scrolls  in  yonder  drawer/— 
(She  pointed  to  the  table  in  her  room) 
'Some  words  of  mine  and  words  of  his  are  there. 
And  keep  these  simple  scrolls  until  he  comes, 
And  put  them  in  his  hands ; — and,  Mother,  watch, 
Watch  him  if  he  weeps ; — and  tell  him  this, — 
I  tasted  all  the  sweets  of  sacrifice, 


THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS.         257 

I  kissed  my  cross  a  thousand  times  a  day, 
I  hung  and  bled  upon  it  in  my  dreams, 
I  lived  on  it — I  loved  it  to  the  last.'     And  then 
A  low,  soft  sigh  crept  thro'  the  Virgin's  cell, — 
I  looked  upon  her  face, — and  death  was  there." 
There  was  a  pause, — and  in  the  pause  one  wave 
Of  shining  tears  swept  thro'  the  Mother's  eyes. 
(  And  thus,"  she  said,  "  our  Angel  passed  away. 
We  buried  her, — and  at  her  last  request 
We  wrote  upon  the  slab,  '  Ullainee.' 
And  I, — (for  she  had  asked  me  one  day  thus, 
The  day  she  hung  her  picture  in  the  choir) 
I  planted  o'er  her  grave  a  white  rose  tree. 
The  roses  crept  around  the  slab  and  hid 
The  graven  name, — and  still,  we  sometimes  cull 
Her  sweet,  white  roses,  and  we  place  them  on 
Our  Chapel- Altar." 

Then  the  Mother  rose, 
Without  another  word,  and  led  him  thro' 
A  long,  vast  hall, — then  up  a  flight  of  stairs 
Unto  an  oaken  door,  which  turned  upon  its  hinge 
Noiselessly, — then  into  a  Chapel  dim, — 
On  Gospel-side  of  which  there  was  a  gate 
From  ceiling  down  to  floor, — and  back  of  that 
A  long  and  narrow  choir,  with  many  stalls, 
Brown-oaken ;  all  along  the  walls  were  hung 
Saint-pictures,  whose  sweet  faces  looked  upon 
The  faces  of  the  Sisters  in  theif'jlrayers. 
Beside  a  "Mater  Dolorosa"  hung 
The  picture  of  the  "  Angel  of  the  choir." 
He  sees  it  now  thro'  vista  of  the  years, 
Which  stretch  between  him  and  that  long-gone  day, 
It  hangs  within  his  memory  as  fresh 


258         THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS. 

In  tint  and  touch  and  look  as  long  ago. 

There  was  a  power  in  it,  as  if  the  soul 

Of  her  who  painted  it  had  shrined  in  it 

Its  very  self  ;  there  was  a  spell  in  it 

That  fell  upon  his  spirit  thro'  his  eyes, 

And  made  him  dream  of  God's  own  holy  heart. 

The  shadow  of  the  picture,  in  weak  words, 

Was  this,  —  or  something  very  like  to  this  : 

-  A  wild,  wierd  wold, 
Just  like  the  desolation  of  a  heart,  — 
Stretched  far  away  into  infinity  ; 
Above  it  low,  gray  skies  drooped  sadly  down 
As  if  they  fain  would  Aveep,  —  and  all  was  bare 
As  bleakness'  own  bleak  self  ;  —  a  mountain  stood 
All  mantled  with  the  glory  of  a  light 
That  flashed  from  out  the  heavens,  —  and  a  Cross 
With  such  a  pale  Christ  hanging  in  its  arms 
Did  crown  the  mount  ;  —  and  either  side  the  Cross 
There  were  two  crosses  lying  on  the  rocks,  — 
One  of  whitest  roses;  —  ULLAINEE 
Was  woven  into  it  with  buds  of  red  ;  — 
And  one  of  reddest  roses;  —  Merlin's  name 
Was  woven  into  it  with  buds  of  white. 
Below  the  Cross  and  Crosses  and  the  mount 
The  earth-place  lay  so  dark  and  bleak  and  drear, 
Above,  —  a  golden  glory  seemed  to  hang 
Like  God's  own  benediction  o'er  the  names. 


I  saw  the  picture  once  ;  —  it  moved  me  so 
I  nee'r  forgot  its  beauty  or  its  truth; 
But  words  as  weak  as  mine  can  never  paint 
That  Crucifixion's  picture. 


LINES.  259 

Merlin  said  to  me, 

"Some  day — some  far  off  day  when  I  am  dead, 
You  have  the  simple  rhymings  of  two  hearts, 
And  if  you  think  it  best, — the  world  may  know 
A  love-tale  crowned  by  purest  SACRIFICE." 


LINES. 

HE  death  of  men  is  not  the  death 

Of  Rights  that  urged  them  to  the  fray ; 

For  men  may  yield 

On  battle  field 
A  noble  life  with  stainless  shield, 

And  swords  may  rust 

Above  their  dust, — 

But  still,— and  still 

The  touch  and  thrill 
Of  Freedom's  vivifying  breath 
Will  nerve  a  heart  and  rouse  a  will 
In  some  hour  in  the  days  to  be, 
To  win  back  triumphs  from  defeat, 
And  thosje  who  blame  us, — then  will  greet 
Right's  glorious  eternity. 

For  Right  lives  in  a  thousand  things ; 

Its  cradle  is  its  martyr's  grave, 
Wherein  it  rests  awhile  until, 

The  life  that  heroisms  gave 


260     DEATH  OF  THE  PRINCE  IMPERIAL. 

Will  rise  again,  at  God's  own  will, 

And  right  the  wrong 

Which  long  and  long, 
Did  reign  above  the  true  and  just ; — 
And  thro'  the  songs  the  poet  sings. 
Right's  vivifying  spirit  rings ; 

Each  simple  rhyme 

Keeps  step  and  time 
With  those  who  marched  away  and  feM, 

And  all  his  lines, 

Are  humble  shrines, 
Where  love  of  Right  will  love  to  dwell. 


DEATH  OF  THE  PRINCE  IMPERIAL. 

" 

AILETH  a  woman  "Oh  !  my  God!" 
'"^A  breaking  heart  in  a  broken  breath. — 

£P 

i>  A  hopeless  cry  o'er  her  heart-hope's  death ! 
N  Can  words  catch  the  chords  of  the  winds  that  waM, 
L  When  love's  last  lily  lies  dead  in  the  vale  ? 
Let  her  alone, 

Under  the  rod 
With  the  infinite  moan 
Of  her  soul  for  God. 

.Ah  !  song !  you  may  echo  the  sound  of  pain, 
But  you  never  may  shrine, 
In  verse  or  line, 
The  pang  of  the  heart  that  breaks  in  twain. 


DEATH  OF  THE  PRINCE  IMPERIAL.     261 

Waileth  a  woman, — Oh  !  my  God  ! 
Wind-driven  waves  with  no  hearts  that  ache, 
Why  do  your  passionate  pulses  throb? 
No  lips  that  speak, — have  ye  souls  that  sob  ? 
We  carry  the  cross, — ye  wear  the  crest, 
We  have  our  God,  — and  ye,  your  shore, 
Whither  ye  rush  in  the  storm  to  rest ; 
We  have  the  havens  of  holy  prayer, — 
And  we  have  a  Hope, — have  ye  despair? 
For  storm-rocked  waves  ye  break  evermore, 
Adown  the  shores  and  along  the  years, 
In  the  whitest  foam  of  the  saddest  tears, 
And  we,  as  ye,  oh  ?  waves,  gray  waves ! 
Drift  over  a  sea  more  deep  and  wide, 
For  we  have  sorrow  and  we  have  death, 
And  ye  have  only  the  tempest's  breath; 
But  we  have  God  when  heart-oppressed, 
As  a  calm  and  beautiful  shore  of  rest. 

Oh  waves  !  sad  waves  !  how  you  flowed  between 
The  crownless  Prince  and  the  exiled  Queen ! 

Waileth  a  woman  !  oh  !  my  God  ! 
Her  hopes  are  withered — her  heart  is  crushed., 
For  the  Love  of  her  love  is  cold  and  dead, 
The  Joy  of  her  joy  hath  forever  fled  ; 
A  starless  and  pitiless  night  hath  rushed 
On  the  Light  of  her  life, —  and  far  away 
Jn  an  Afric  wild  lies  her  poor  dead  child, 
Lies  the  Heart  of  her  heart, — let  her  alone 

Under  the  rod 

With  her  infinite  moan, 

Oh  !  my  God  ! 


262     DEATH  OF  THE  PRINCE  IMPERIAL. 

He  was  beautiful,  pure  and  brave, 

The  brightest  grace 

Of  a  royal  race  ; — • 
Only  his  throne  is  but  a  grave ; 

Is  there  fate  in  fames  ? 

Is  there  doom  in  names? 
Ah !  what  did  the  cruel  Zulu-spears 
Care  for  the  Prince  or  his  mother's  tears? 
What  did  the  Zulu's  ruthless  lance 
Care  for  the  Hope  of  the  future  France  ? 

Crieth  the  Empress — "  Oh  !  my  son  !  " 
He  was  her  own  and  her  only  one, 
She  had  nothing  to  give  him  but  her  love, 
'Twas  kingdom  enough  on  earth, — Above 
She  gave  him  an  infinite  faith  in  God  ; — 

Let  her  cry  her  cry 
Over  her  own  and  only  one, 
All  the  glory  is  gone — is  gone, 

Into  her  broken-hearted  sigh. 

Moaneth  a  mother, — "  Oh  !  my  child  ! " 
And  who  can  sound  that  depth  of  woe  ? 
Homeless, — throneless,  crownless,  now 
She  bows  her  sorrow -wreathed  brow,— 
(S(y  Fame  and  all  its  grandeurs  go) 
Let  her  alone 

Beneath  the  rod 
With  her  infinite  moan, 
Oh  !  my  God. 


O  words  of  mine  !  and  if  you  lire 

Only  for  one  brief,  little  day; 
If  peace,  or  joy,  or  calm  you  give 

To  any  soul ; — or  if  you  bring 
A  something  higher  to  some  heart, 
I  may  come  back  again  and  sing 
Songs  free  from  all  the  arts  of  Art. 


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